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MAN    AND    WIFE 


a  TRovel 


16 


BY 


I 


WILKiE    COLLINS 

AUTHOR  or 

'POOB   MISS   FINCff"    "no   name"    "THE    MOONSTONK  '    ''baSU." 
"tHK    DKAD    SECRIT"    "  ARMADALE "    ETC. 


ILLUSTRATED 


HARPER    &    BROTHERS  PUBLISHERS 
NBW  YORK  AND  LONDON 


PRINTED    IN    THE     UNITED    STATES    OF    AMERICA 
B-T 


iibhAHV   UNIV.    OF 
NORTH  CAROLINA  J  j 


MAN  AND  WIFE. 


PROLOGUE.  — THE  IRISH  MARRIAGE, 


Part  tf)c  iTirst. 
THE  VILLA  AT  HAMPSTEAD. 


On  a  summer's  morning,  between  thirty  and  forty  years  ago, 
two  girls  were  crying  bitterly  in  the  cabin  of  an  East  Indian 
passenger  ship,  bound  outward,  from  Gravesend  to  Bombay. 

They  were  both  of  the  same  age — eighteen.  They  had  both, 
from  childhood  upward,  been  close  and  dear  friends  at  the  same 
school.  They  were  now  parting  for  the  first  time — and  parting, 
it  might  be,  for  life. 

The  name  of  one  was  Blanche.  The  name  of  the  other  was 
Anne. 

Both  were  the  children  of  poor  parents ;  both  had  been  pupil- 
teachers  at  the  school ;  and  both  were  destined  to  earn  their 
own  bread.  Personally  speaking,  and  socially  speaking,  these 
were  the  only  points  of  resemblance  between  them. 

Blanche  was  passably  attractive  and  passably  intelligent, 
and  no  more.  Anne  was  rarely  beautiful  and  rarely  endowed. 
Blanche's  parents  were  worthy  people,  whose  first  considera- 
tion was  to  secure,  at  any  sacrifice,  the  future  well-being  of 
their  child.  Anne's  parents  were  heartless  and  depraved. 
Their  one  idea,  in  connection  with  their  daughter,  was  to  spec- 
ulate on  her  beauty,  and  to  turn  her  abilities  to  profitable  ac- 
count. 

The  girls  were  starting  in  life  under  widely  difierent  con- 
ditions. Blanche  was  going  to  India,  to  be  governess  in  the 
household  of  a  Judge,  under  care  of  the  Judge's  wife.  Anne 
was  to  wait  at  home  until  the  first  opportunity  ofiered  of  send- 
ing her  cheaply  to  Milan.  There,  among  strangers,  she  was  to 
be  perfected  in  the  actress's  and  the  singer's  art  ;  then  to  return 
to  England,  and  make  the  fortune  of  her  fauiily  on  the  lyric  stage, 


10  MAN    AND    "VVrFE, 

Such  were  the  prospects  of  the  two  as  they  sat  together  in 
the  cabin  of  the  Indiaman  locked  fast  in  each  other's  arms, 
and  crying  bitterly.  The  whispered  farewell  talk  exchanged 
between  them — exaggerated  and  impulsive  as  girls'  talk  is  apt 
to  be — came  honestly,  in  each  case,  straight  from  the  heart. 

"Blanche!  you  may  be  married  in  India.  Make  your  hus- 
band bring  you  back  to  England." 

"Anne  !  you  may  take  a  dislike  to  the  stage.  Come  out  to 
India  if  you  do." 

"  In  England  or  out  of  England,  married  or  not  married,  we 
will  meet,  darling — if  it's  years  hence — with  all  the  old  love 
between  us;  friends  who  help  each  other,  sisters  who  trust  each 
other,  for  life  !     Vow  it,  Blanche  !" 

"I  vow  it,  Anne  !" 

"  With  all  your  heart  and  soul  ?" 

"  With  all  my  heart  and  soul !" 

The  sails  were  spread  to  the  wind,  and  the  ship  began  to  move 
in  the  water.  It  was  necessary  to  appeal  to  the  captain's  au- 
thority before  the  girls  could  be  parted.  The  captain  inter- 
fered gently  and  firmly.  "  Come,  my  dear,"  he  said,  putting 
his  arm  round  Anne;  "you  won't  mind  me!  I  have  got  a 
daughter  of  my  own."  Amie's  head  fell  on  the  sailor's  shoul- 
der. He  put  her,  with  his  own  hands,  into  the  shore -boat' 
alongside.  In  five  minutes  more  the  ship  had  gathered  way; 
the  boat  was  at  the  landing-stage — and  the  girls  had  seen  the 
last  of  each  other  for  many  a  long  year  to  come. 

This  was  in  the  summer  of  eighteen  hundred  and  thirty-one. 

II. 

Twenty-four  years  later — in  the  summer  of  eighteen  hundred 
and  fifty-five — there  was  a  villa  at  Hampstead  to  be  let,  fur- 
nished. 

The  house  was  still  occupied  by  the  pei'sons  who  desired  to 
let  it.  On  the  evening  on  which  this  scene  opens  a  lady  and 
two  gentlemen  were  seated  at  the  dinner-table.  Tiie  lady  had 
reached  the  mature  age  of  forty-two.  She  was  still  a  rarely 
beautiful  woman.  Her  husband,  some  years  younger  than  her- 
self, f-xced  her  at  the  table,  sitting  silent  and  constrained,  and 
never,  even  by  accident,  looking  at  his  wife.  The  third  person 
was  a  guest.  The  husband's  name  was  Vanborough.  The 
guest's  name  was  Kendrew. 

It  was  the  end  of  the  dinner.  The  fruit  and  the  wine  were 
on  the  table.  Mr.  Vanborough  pushed  the  bottles  in  silence  to 
Mr.  Kendrew.  The  lady  of  the  house  looked  round  at  the  servant 
who  was  waiting,  and  said,  "Tell  the  children  to  come  in." 

The  door  opened,  and  a  girl  twelve  years  old  entered,  leading 
by  the  hand  a  younger  girl  of  five.     They  were  both  prettily 


MAN    AND    WIFE.  ■  11' 

dressed  in  white,  with  sashes  of  the  same  shade  of  light  blue. 
But  there  was  no  faniilj'  resemblance  between  them.  The  eld- 
er girl  was  frail  and  delicate,  with  a  pale,  sensitive  face.  The 
younger  was  light  and  florid,  with  round  red  cheeks  and  bright, 
saucy  eyes — a  charming  little  picture  of  happiness  and  health. 

Mr.  Kendrew  looked  inquiringly  at  the  youngest  of  the  two 
girls. 

"Here  is  a  young  lady,"  he  said,  "who  is  a  total  stranger  to 
me." 

"If  you  had  not  been  a  total  stranger  yourself  for  a  whole 
year  past,"  answered  Mrs.  Yanborough, "  you  would  never  have 
made  that  confession.  This  is  little  Blanche — the  only  child 
of  the  dearest  friend  I  have.  When  Blanche's  mother  and  I 
last  saw  each  other  we  were  two  poor  school-girls  beginning 
the  world.  My  friend  went  to  India,  and  mari'ied  there  late 
in  life.  You  may  have  heard  of  her  husband — the  famous  In- 
dian officer,  Sir  Thomas  Lundie  ?  Yes :  '  the  I'ich  Sir  Thomas,' 
as  you  call  him.  Lady  Lundie  is  now  on  her  way  back  to 
England,  for  the  first  time  since  she  left  it — I  am  afraid  to  say 
liow  many  yeai's  since.  I  expected  her  yesterday;  I  expect 
her  to-day — she  may  come  at  any  moment.  We  exchanged 
promises  to  meet,  in  the  ship  that  took  her  to  India — '  vows' 
we  called  them  in  the  dear  old  times.  Imagine  how  changed 
Ave  shall  find  each  other  when  we  do  meet  again  at  last !" 

"In  the  mean  time,"  said  Mr.  Kendi'ew,  "your  friend  appears 
to  have  sent  you  her  little  daughter  to  represent  her?  It's  a 
long  journe)^  for  so  young  a  traveler." 

"A  journey  ordered  by  the  doctors  in  India  a  year  since," 
rejoined  Mrs.  Yanborough.  "They  said  Blanche's  health  re- 
quired English  ail-.  Sir  Tliomns  was  ill  at  the  time,  and  his 
wife  couldn't  leave  him.  She  had  to  send  the  child  to  En- 
gland, and  who  should  she  send  her  to  but  me?  Look  at  her 
now,  and  say  if  the  English  air  hasn't  agreed  with  her!  We 
two  mothers,  Mr.  Kendrew,  seem  litei'ally  to  live  again  in  our 
children.  I  have  an  only  child.  My  friend  has  an  only  child. 
My  daughter  is  little  Anne — as  i"  was.  My  friend's  daughter 
is  little  Blanche — as  she  was.  And,  to  crown  it  all,  those  two 
girls  have  taken  the  same  fiincy  to  each  other  which  ?fe  took 
to  each  other  in  the  by-gone  days  at  school.  One  has  often 
heard  of  hereditary  hatred.  Is  there  such  a  thing  as  hei-edi- 
tary  love  as  well  ?" 

Before  the  guest  could  answer,  his  attention  was  claimed  by 
the  master  of  the  house. 

"Kendrew,"  said  Mr.  Yanborough,  "  Avhen  you  have  had 
enouoh  of  domestic  sentiment,  suppose  you  take  a  L^Iass  of 
wine'?" 

The  words  were  F;)oken  with  undisguised  contempt  of  tone 


12  MAN   AND   WIFK. 

and  manner,  Mrs.  Vanborough's  color  rose.  She  waited,  and 
controlled  the  momentary  irritation.  When  she  spoke  to  her 
husband  it  was  evidently  with  a  wish  to  soothe  and  conciliate 
him. 

"  I  am  afraid,  my  dear,  you  are  not  well  this  evening  ?" 

"  I  shall  be  better  when  those  children  have  done  clattering 
with  their  knives  and  forks." 

The  girls  were  peeling  fruit.  The  younger  one  went  on. 
The  elder  stopped,  and  looked  at  her  mother.  Mrs.  Van- 
borough  beckoned  to  Blanche  to  come  to  her,  and  pointed  to- 
ward  the  French  window  opening  to  the  floor. 

"Would  you  like  to  eat  your  fruit  in  the  garden,  Blanche?" 

"  Yes,"  said  Blanche,  "  if  Anne  will  go  with  me." 

Anne  rose  at  once,  and  the  two  girls  went  away  together 
into  the  garden,  hand  in  hand.  On  their  departure  Mr.  Ken- 
drew  wisely  started  a  new  subject.  He  referred  to  the  letting 
of  the  house. 

"  The  loss  of  the  garden  will  be  a  sad  loss  to  those  two 
young  ladies,"  he  said,  "  It  really  seems  to  be  a  pity  that 
you  should  be  giving  up  this  pretty  place." 

"  Leaving  the  house  is  not  the  worst  of  the  sacrifice,"  an- 
swered Mrs.  Vanborough.  "  If  John  finds  Hampstead  too  far 
for  him  from  London,  of  course  we  must  move.  The  only  hard- 
ship that  I  complain  of  is  the  hardship  of  having  the  house  to  let." 

Mr.  Vanborough  looked  across  the  table,  as  ungraciously  as 
possible,  at  his  wife. 

"  What  have  you  to  do  with  it  ?"  he  asked. 

Mrs.  Vanborough  tried  to  clear  the  conjugal  horizon  by  a 
smile. 

"  My  dear  John,"  she  said,  gently,  "  you  forget  that,  while 
you  are  at  business,  I  am  here  all  day.  I  can't  help  seeing 
the  people  who  come  to  look  at  the  house.  Such  people !"  she 
continued,  turning  to  Mr.  Kendrew,  "  They  distrust  every 
thing,  from  the  scraper  at  the  door  to  the  chimneys  on  the 
roof.  They  force  their  way  in  at  all  hours.  They  ask  all  sorts 
of  impudent  questions — and  they  show  you  plainly  that  they 
don't  mean  to  believe  your  answers,  before  you  have  time  to 
make  them.  Some  wretch  of  a  woman  says,  '  Do  you  think 
the  drains  are  right?' — and  snifis  suspiciously,  before  I  can  say 
Yes.  Some  brute  of  a  man  asks,  '  Are  you  quite  sure  this 
house  is  solidly  built,  ma'am  ?' — and  jumps  on  the  floor  at  the 
full  stretch  of  his  legs,  without  waiting  for  me  to  reply.  No- 
body believes  in  our  gravel  soil  and  our  south  aspect.  No- 
body wants  any  of  our  improvements.  The  moment  they  hear 
of  John's  Artesian  well,  they  look  as  if  they  never  drank  wa- 
ter. And,  if  they  happen  to  pass  my  poultry-yard,  they  in- 
stantly lose  all  appreciation  of  the  merits  of  a  fresh  egg." 


MAN    AND    WIFE.  13 

Mr.  Kendrew  laughed.  "I  have  been  through  it  all  in  ray 
time,"  he  said.  "The  people  who  want  to  take  a  house  are 
the  horn  enemies  of  the  people  who  want  to  let  a  house.  Odd, 
isn't  it,Vanborough?" 

Mr.  Vanborough's  sullen  humor  resisted  his  friend  as  obsti- 
nately as  it  had  resisted  his  wife. 

"  I  dare  say,"  he  answered.     "  I  wasn't  listening." 

This  time  the  tone  was  almost  brutal.  Mrs.  Vanborough 
looked  at  her  husband  with  unconcealed  surprise  and  distress. 

"John!"  she  said.  "What  can  be  the  matter  with  you? 
Are  you  in  pain  ?" 

"A  man  may  be  anxious  and  worried,  I  suppose,  without 
being  actually  in  pain." 

"  I  am  sorry  to  hear  you  are  worried.     Is  it  business  ?" 

"  Yes — business." 

"Consult  Mr.  Kendrew." 

"I  am  waiting  to  consult  him." 

Mrs. Vanborough  rose  immediately.  "Ring,  dear,"  she  said, 
"when  you  want  cofiee."  As  she  passed  her  husband  she 
stopped  and  laid  her  hand  tenderly  on  his  forehead.  "I  wish 
I  could  smooth  out  that  frown  !"  she  whispered.  jNIr.  Van- 
borough impatiently  shook  his  head.  Mrs.  Vanborough  sighed 
as  slie  turned  to  the  door.  Her  husband  called  to  her  before 
she  could  leave  the  room. 

"Mind  we  are  not  interrupted  !" 

"I  will  do  my  best,  John."  She  looked  at  Mr.  Kendi-ew, 
holding  the  door  open  for  her;  and  resumed,  with  an  effort, 
her  former  lightness  of  tone.  "But  don't  forget  our  'born 
enemies  !'  Somebody  may  come,  even  at  tliis  hour  of  the 
evening,  who  wants  to  see  the  house." 

The  two  gentlemen  were  left  alone  over  their  wine.  There 
was  a  strong  personal  contrast  between  them.  Mr.  Van- 
boi'ough  was  tall  and  dark — a  dashing,  handsome  man  ;  with 
an  energy  in  his  face  which  all  the  woi-ld  saw  ;  with  an  inbred 
falseness  under  it  which  only  a  special  observer  could  detect. 
Mr.  Kendrew  was  short  and  light — slow  and  awkward  in  man- 
ner, except  when  something  liappened  to  rouse  him.  Looking 
in  his  fiice,  the  world  saw  an  ugly  and  undemonstrative  lit- 
tle man.  The  special  observei",  penetrating  under  the  suiface, 
found  a  fine  nature  beneath,  resting  on  a  steady  foundation  of 
lioiior  and  truth. 

Mr.  Vanborough  opened  the  conversation. 

"  If  you  ever  marry,"  he  said,  "  don't  be  such  a  fool,  Ken- 
drew, as  I  have  been.     Don't  take  a  wife  from  the  stage." 

"If  I  could  get  such  a  wife  as  yours,"  i-eplied  the  other,  "I 
would  take  her  from  the  stage  to-morrow.  A  beautiful  wom- 
an, a  clever  woman,  a  woman  of  unblemished  character,  and  a 


24  MAN    AND    WIFE. 

woman  who  truly  loves  you.  Man  alive !  what  do  you  want 
more  ?" 

"  I  want  a  great  deal  more.  I  want  a  woman  highly  con- 
nected and  highly  bred — a  woman  who  can  receive  the  best 
society  in  England,  and  open  her  husband's  way  to  a  position 
in  the  world." 

"  A  position  in  the  world  !"  cried  Mr.  Kendrew.  "  Here  is  a 
man  whose  father  has  left  him  half  a  million  of  money — with 
the  one  condition  annexed  to  it  of  taking  his  father's  place  at 
the  head  of  one  of  the  greatest  mercantile  houses  in  England. 
And  he  talks  about  a  position,  as  if  he  was  a  junior  clerk  in 
his  own  office!  What  on  earth  does  your  ambition  see,  be- 
yond what  your  ambition  has  already  got  ?" 

Mr.  Vanborough  finished  his  glass  of  wine,  and  looked  his 
friend  steadily  in  the  face. 

"  My  ambition,"  he  said,  "  sees  a  Parliamentary  career,  with 
a  Peerage  at  the  end  of  it — and  with  no  obstacle  in  the  way 
but  my  estimable  wife." 

Mr.  Kendrew  lifted  his  hand  warningly.  "Don't  talk  in 
that  way,"  he  said.  "  If  you're  joking — it's  a  joke  I  don't  see. 
If  you're  in  earnest — you  force  a  suspicion  on  me  which  I 
would  rather  not  feel.     Let  us  change  the  subject." 

"No !    Let  us  have  it  out  at  once.    What  do  you  suspect?" 

"  I  suspect  you  are  getting  tired  of  your  wife." 

"She  is  forty-two,  and  I  am  thirty-five;  and  I  have  beeii 
married  to  her  for  thirteen  years.  You  know  all  that — and 
you  only  suspect  I  am  tired  of  her.  Bless  your  innocence  I 
Have  you  any  thing  more  to  say  ?" 

"  If  you  force  me  to  it,  I  take  the  freedom  of  an  old  friend, 
and  I  say  you  are  not  treating  her  fairly.  It's  nearly  two 
years  since  you  broke  up  your  establishment  abroad,  and  came 
to  England  on  your  father's  death.  With  the  exception  of 
myself,  and  one  or  two  other  friends  of  former  days,  you  have 
presented  your  wife  to  nobody.  Your  new  position  has 
smoothed  the  way  for  you  into  the  best  society.  You  never 
take  your  wife  with  you.  You  go  out  as  if  you  were  a  single 
man.  I  have  reason  to  know  that  you  are  actually  believed 
to  be  a  single  man,  among  these  new  acquaintances  of  yours, 
in  more  than  one  quarter.  Forgive  me  for  speaking  ray  mind 
bluntly — I  say  what  I  think.  It's  unworthy  of  you  to  keep 
your  wife  buried  here,  as  if  you  were  ashamed  of  her." 

"  I  am  ashamed  of  her." 

"  Vanborough !" 

"  Wait  a  little !  you  are  not  to  have  it  all  your  own  way, 
my  good  fellow.  What  are  the  facts  ?  Thirteen  years  ago  I 
fell  in  love  with  a  handsome  public  singer,  and  married  her. 
My  father  was  angry  with  me ;  and  I  had  to  go  and  live  with 


MAN    AXD    WIFB.  15 

her  abroad.  It  didn't  matter,  abroad.  My  father  forgave  me 
on  his  death-bed,  and  I  had  to  bring  her  home  again.  It  does 
matter,  at  home.  I  find  myself,  with  a  great  career  opening 
before  me,  tied  to  a  woman  whose  relations  are  (as  you  well 
know)  the  lowest  of  the  low.  A  woman  without  the  slightest 
distinction  of  manner,  or  the  slightest  aspiration  beyond  her 
nursery  and  her  kitchen,  her  piano  and  her  books.  Is  that  a 
wife  who  can  help  me  to  make  my  place  in  society  ? — who  can 
smooth  my  way,  through  social  obstacles  and  political  obsta- 
cles, to  the  House  of  Lords?  By  Jupiter!  if  ever  there  was  a 
woman  to  be  'buried'  (as  you  call  it),  that  woman  is  my  wife. 
And,  what's  more,  if  you  want  the  truth,  it's  because  I  caiTbt 
bury  her  here  that  I'm  going  to  leave  this  house.  She  has  got 
a  cursed  knack  of  making  acquaintances  wherever  she  goes. 
She'll  have  a  circle  of  friends  about  her  if  I  leave  her  in  this 
neighborhood  much  longer.  Friends  who  remember  her  as  the 
famous  opera -singer.  Friends  who  will  see  her  swindling 
scoundrel  of  a  father  (when  my  back  is  turned)  coming  drunk 
to  the  door  to  borrow  money  of  her!  I  tell  you,  my  marriage 
has  wrecked  my  prospects.  It's  no  use  talking  to  me  of  my 
wife's  virtues.  She  is  a  millstone  round  my  neck,  with  all  her 
virtues.  If  I  had  not  been  a  born  idiot  I  should  have  waited, 
and  married  a  woman  who  would  have  been  of  some  use  to 
me ;  a  woman  with  high  connections — " 

Mr.  Kendrew  touched  his  host's  arm,  and  suddenly  inter- 
rupted him. 

"  To  come  to  the  point,"  he  said — "  a  woman  like  Lady  Jane 
Parnell." 

Mr.  Vanborough  started.  His  eyes  fell,  for  the  first  time, 
before  the  eyes  of  his  friend. 

"What  do  you  know  about  Lady  Jane?"  he  asked. 

"  Nothing.  I  don't  move  in  Lady  Jane's  world — but  I  do 
go  sometimes  to  the  opera.  I  saw  you  with  her  last  night  in 
her  box ;  and  I  heard  what  was  said  in  the  stalls  near  me. 
You  were  openly  spoken  of  as  the  favored  man  who  was  sin- 
gled out  from  the  rest  by  Lady  Jane.  Imagine  what  would 
happen  if  your  wife  heard  that !  You  are  wrong,  Vanborough 
— you  are  in  every  way  wrong.  You  alarm,  you  distress,  you 
disappoint  me.  I  never  sought  this  explanation — but,  now  it 
has  come,  I  won't  shrink  from  it.  Reconsider  your  conduct ; 
reconsider  what  you  have  said  to  me — or  you  count  me  no 
longer  among  your  friends.  No  !  I  want  no  further  talk  about 
it  now.  We  are  both  getting  hot — we  may  end  in  saying 
what  had  better  have  been  left  unsaid.  Once  more,  let  us 
change  the  subject.  You  wrote  me  word  that  you  wanted  me 
here  to-day,  because  you  needed  my  advice  on  a  matter  of 
some  importance.     What  is  it  ?" 


16  MAN    AND    WIPE. 

Silence  followed  that  question.  Mr.  Vanborough's  face  be- 
trayed signs  of  embarrassment.  He  poured  himself  out  an- 
other glass  of  wine,  and  drank  it  at  a  draught  before  he  re- 
plied. 

"  It's  not  so  easy  to  tell  you  what  I  want,"  he  said,  "  after 
the  tone  you  have  taken  with  me  about  my  wife." 

Mr.  Kendrew  looked  surprised. 

"Is  Mrs. Vanborough  concerned  in  the  matter?"  he  asked. 

"  Yes." 

"  Does  she  know  about  it  ?" 

«  No." 

"  Have  you  kept  the  thing  a  secret  out  of  regard  for  her  /■" 

"Yes." 

"Have  I  any  right  to  advise  on  it?" 

"You  have  the  right  of  an  old  friend." 

"Then,  why  not  tell  me  frankly  what  it  is?" 

There  was  another  moment  of  embarrassment  on  Mr.  Van- 
borough's  part. 

"  It  will  come  better,"  he  answered,  "  from  a  third  person, 
whom  I  expect  here  every  minute.  He  is  in  possession  of  all 
the  facts — and  he  is  better  able  to  state  them  than  I  am." 

"  Who  is  the  person  ?" 

"  My  friend  Delamayn." 

"Your  lawyer?" 

"Yes — the  junior  partner  in  the  firm  of  Delamayn,  Hawke,^ 
and  Delamayn.     Do  you  know  him  ?" 

"  I  am  acquainted  with  him.  His  wife's  family  were  friends 
of  mine  before  he  married.     I  don't  like  him." 

"  You're  rather  hard  to  please  to-day?  Delamayn  is  a  rising 
man,  if  ever  there  was  one  yet.  A  man  with  a  career  before 
him,  and  with  courage  enough  to  pursue  it.  He  is  going  to 
leave  the  Firm,  and  try  his  luck  at  the  Bar.  Every  body  says 
he  will  do  great  things.     What's  your  objection  to  him  ?" 

"I  have  no  objection  whatever.  We  meet  with  people  oc- 
casionally whom  we  dislike  without  knowing  why.  Without 
knowing  why,  I  dislike  Mr.  Delamayn." 

"  Whatever  you  do,  you  must  put  up  with  him  this  evening. 
He  will  be  here  directly." 

He  was  there  at  that  moment.  The  servant  opened  the 
door,  and  announced — "  Mr.  Delamayn." 

ni. 

Externally  speaking,  the  rising  solicitor,  who  was  going  to 
try  his  luck  at  the  Bar,  looked  like  a  man  who  was  going  to 
succeed.  His  hard,  hairless  face,  his  watchful  gray  eyes,  his 
thin,  resolute  lips,  said  plainly,  in  so  many  words,  "  I  mean  to 
get  on  in  the  world ;  and,  if  you  are  in  my  way,  I  mean  to  get 


MAN    AND    WIFE.  17 

on  at  your  expense."  Mr.  Delamayn  was  habitually  polite  to 
every  body — but  he  had  never  been  known  to  say  one  unnec- 
essary word  to  his  dearest  friend.  A  man  of  rare  ability ;  a 
man  of  unblemished  honor  (as  the  code  of  the  world  goes)  •, 
but  not  a  man  to  be  taken  familiarly  by  the  hand.  You 
would  never  have  borrowed  money  of  him — but  you  would 
have  trusted  him  with  untold  gold.  Involved  in  private  and 
personal  troubles,  you  would  have  hesitated  at  asking  him  to 
help  you.  Involved  in  public  and  producible  troubles,  you 
would  have  said,  Here  is  ray  man.  Sure  to  push  his  way — 
nobody  could  look  at  him  and  doubt  it — sure  to  push  his  way. 

"  Kendrew  is  an  old  friend  of  mine,"  said  Mr.  Vanborough, 
addressing  himself  to  the  lawyer.  "  Whatever  you  have  to  say 
to  me  you  may  say  before  him.     Will  you  have  some  wine  ?" 

"No— thank  you." 

"Have  you  brought  any  news?" 

"Yes." 

"  Have  you  got  the  written  opinions  of  the  two  barristers  ?" 

«  No." 

"Why  not?" 

"  Because  nothing  of  the  sort  is  necessary.  If  the  facts  of 
the  case  are  correctly  stated  there  is  not  the  slightest  doubt 
about  the  law." 

With  that  reply  Mr.  Delamayn  took  a  written  paper  from 
his  pocket,  and  spread  it  out  on  the  table  before  him. 

"  What  is  that  ?"  asked  Mr.  Vanborough. 

"  The  case  relating  to  your  marriage." 

Mr.  Kendrew  started,  and  showed  the  first  tokens  of  interest 
in  the  proceedings  which  had  escaped  him  yet.  Mr.  Delamayn 
looked  at  him  for  a  moment,  and  went  on. 

"The  case,"  he  resumed,  "as  originally  stated  by  you,  and 
taken  down  in  writing  by  our  head-clerk." 

Mr.Vanborough's  temper  began  to  show  itself  again. 

"  What  have  we  got  to  do  with  that  now  ?"  he  asked.  "You 
have  made  your  inquiries  to  prove  the  correctness  of  my  state- 
ment— haven't  you  ?" 

"Yes." 

"  And  you  have  found  out  that  I  am  right  ?" 

"  I  have  found  out  that  you  are  right — if  the  case  is  right. 
f  wish  to  be  sure  that  no  mistake  has  occurred  between  you 
and  the  clerk.  This  is  a  very  important  matter.  I  am  going 
to  take  the  responsibility  of  giving  an  opinion  which  may  be 
followed  by  serious  consequences ;  and  I  mean  to  assure  my- 
self that  the  opinion  is  given  on  a  sound  basis,  first.  I  have 
some  questions  to  ask  you.  Don't  be  impatient,  if  you  please. 
They  won't  take  long." 

He  referred  to  the  manuscript,  and  put  the  first  question. 

9 


18  MAN    AND    WIFE, 

"  You  were  married  at  Inchmallock,  in  Ireland,  Mr.  Van- 
borough,  thirteen  years  since  ?" 

"Yes." 

"Your  wife — then  Miss  Anne  Silvester  —  was  a  Roman 
Catholic  ?" 

"  Yes." 

"  Her  father  and  mother  were  Roman  Catholics?" 

"They  were." 

"  Your  father  and  mother  were  Protestants  ?  and  >/ou  were 
baptized  and  brought  up  in  the  Church  of  England?" 

"  All  right !" 

"Miss  Anne  Silvester  felt,  and  expressed,  a  strong  repug- 
nance to  marrying  you,  because  you  and  she  belonged  to  dif- 
ferent religious  communities  ?" 

"She  did." 

"You  got  over  her  objection  by  consenting  to  become  a 
Roman  Catholic,  like  herself?" 

"  It  was  the  shortest  way  with  her — and  it  didn't  matter  to 
mc." 

"  You  were  formally  received  into  the  Roman  Catholic 
Church?" 

"  I  went  through  the  whole  ceremony." 

"  Abroad  or  at  home  ?" 

"  Abroad." 

"  How  long  was  it  before  the  date  of  your  marriage  ?" 

"  Six  weeks  before  I  was  married." 

Referring  perpetually  to  the  paper  in  his  hand,  Mr.  Dela- 
mayn  was  especially  careful  in  comparing  that  last  answer 
with  the  answer  given  to  the  head-clerk. 

"Quite  right,"  he  said,  and  went  on  with  his  questions. 

"  The  priest  who  married  you  was  one  Ambrose  Redman — 
a  young  man  recently  appointed  to  his  clerical  duties  ?" 

"Yes." 

"  Did  he  ask  if  you  were  both  Roman  Catholics  ?" 

"  Yes." 

"  Did  he  ask  any  thing  more  ?" 

"No." 

"  Are  you  sure  he  never  inquired  whether  you  had  both 
been  Catholics  for  more  than  one  year  before  you  came  to  him 
to  be  m.arriedf'' 

"  I  am  certain  of  it." 

"  He  must  have  forgotten  that  part  of  his  duty — or,  being 
only  a  beginner,  he  may  well  have  been  ignorant  of  it  alto- 
gether. Did  neither  you  nor  the  lady  think  of  informing  him 
on  the  point?" 

"  Neither  I  nor  the  lady  knew  there  was  any  necessity  for 
informing  him." 


Man  and  avifk.  19 

Mr.  Delamayn  folded  up  the  manuscript,  and  put  it  back  in 
his  pocket. 

"  Right,"  he  said,  "  in  every  particular." 

Mr.  Vanborough's  swarthy  complexion  slowly  turned  pale. 
He  cast  one  furtive  glance  at  Mr.  Kendrew,  and  turned  away 
again. 

"  Well,"  he  said  to  the  lawyer,  "  now  for  your  opinion ! 
What  is  the  law  ?" 

"The  law,"  answered  Mr.  Delamayn,  "is  beyond  all  doubt 
or  dispute.  Your  marriage  with  Miss  Anne  Silvester  is  no 
marriage  at  all." 

Mr.  Kendrew  started  to  his  feet. 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?"  he  asked,  sternly. 

The  rising  solicitor  lifted  his  eyebrows  in  polite  surpi'ise.  If 
Mr.  Kendrew  wanted  information,  why  should  Mr.  Kendrew 
ask  for  it  in  that  way  ?  "  Do  you  wish  me  to  go  into  the  law 
of  the  case  ?"  he  inquired. 

"  I  do." 

Mr.  Delamayn  stated  the  law,  as  that  law  still  stands — to 
the  disgrace  of  the  English  Legislature  and  the  English  Na- 
tion. 

"  By  the  Irish  Statute  of  George  the  Second,"  he  said,  "  ev- 
ery marriage  celebrated  by  a  Popish  priest  between  two  Prot- 
estants, or  between  a  Papist  and  any  person  who  has  been  a 
Protestant  within  twelve  months  before  the  marriage,  is  de- 
clared null  and  void.  And  by  two  other  Acts  of  the  same 
reign  such  a  celebration  of  marriage  is  made  a  felony  on  the 
part  of  the  priest.  The  clergy  in  Ireland  of  other  religious  de- 
nominations have  been  relieved  from  this  law.  But  it  still  re- 
mains in  force  so  far  as  the  Roman  Catholic  priesthood  is  con- 
cerned." 

"  Is  such  a  state  of  things  possible  in  the  age  we  live  in  !" 
exclaimed  Mr.  Kendrew. 

Mr.  Delamayn  smiled.  He  had  outgrown  the  customary  il- 
lusions as  to  the  age  we  live  in. 

"There  are  other  instances  in  which  the  Irish  marriage-law 
presents  some  curious  anomalies  of  its  own,"  he  went  on.  "  It 
is  felony,  as  I  have  just  told  you,  for  a  Roman  Catholic  priest 
to  celebrate  a  marriage  which  may  be  lawfully  celebrated  by 
a  parochial  clergyman,  a  Presbyterian  minister,  and  a  Non- 
conformist minister.  It  is  also  felony  (by  another  law)  on  the 
part  of  a  parochial  clergyman  to  celebi-ate  a  marriage  that 
may  be  lawfully  celebrated  by  a  Roman  Catholic  priest.  And 
it  is  again  felony  (by  yet  another  law)  for  a  Presbyterian  min- 
ister and  a  Non-conformist  minister  to  celebrate  a  marriage 
which  may  be  lawfully  celebrated  by  a  clergyman  of  the  Es- 
tablished Church.     An  odd  state  of  things.    Foreigners  might 


/ 


20  MAN    AND    WIFE. 

possibly  think  it  a  scandalous  state  of  things.  In  this  country 
we  don't  appear  to  mind  it.  Returning  to  the  present  case, 
the  results  stand  thus:  Mr. Vanborough  is  a  single  man;  Mrs. 
Vanborough  is  a  single  woman ;  their  child  is  illegitimate,  and 
the  priest,  Ambrose  Redman,  is  liable  to  be  tried,  and  pun 
ished,  as  a  felon,  for  marrying  them." 

"  An  infamous  law  !"  said  Mr.  Kendrew. 

"  It  is  the  law,"  returned  Mr.  Delamayn,  as  a  sufficient  an- 
swer to  him. 

Thus  far  not  a  word  had  escaped  the  master  of  the  house. 
He  sat  with  his  lips  fast  closed  and  his  eyes  riveted  on  the  ta- 
ble, thinking. 

Mr.  Kendrew  turned  to  him,  and  broke  the  silence. 

"  Am  I  to  understand,"  he  asked,  "  that  the  advice  you 
wanted  from  me  related  to  this  P" 

"  Yes." 

"  You  mean  to  tell  me  that,  foreseeing  the  present  interview 
and"  the  result  to  which  it  might  lead,  you  felt  any  doubt  as 
to  the  course  you  were  bound  to  take  ?  Am  I  really  to  un 
derstand  that  you  hesitate  to  set  this  dreadful  mistake  right, 
and  to  make  the  woman  who  is  your  wife  in  the  sight  of 
Heaven  your  wife  in  the  sight  of  the  law  ?" 

"  If  you  choose  to  put  it  in  that  light,"  said  Mr.  Vanbor 
ough  ;  "  if  you  won't  consider — " 

"  I  want  a  plain  answer  to  my  question — '  yes  or  no.' " 

"  Let  me  speak,  will  you !  A  man  has  a  right  to  explain 
himself,  I  suppose  ?" 

Mr.  Kendrew  stopped  him  bv  a  gesture  of  disgust. 

"  I  won't  trouble  you  to  explain  yourself,"  he  said.  "  I  pre 
fer  to  leave  the  house.  You  have  given  me  a  lesson,  sir 
which  I  shall  not  forget.  I  find  that  one  man  may  havi 
known  another  from  the  days  when  they  were  both  boys,  and 
may  have  seen  nothing  but  the  false  surface  of  him  in  all  thai 
time.  I  am  ashamed  of  having  ever  been  your  friend.  Yoii 
are  a  stranger  to  me  from  this  moment." 

With  those  words  he  left  the  room. 

"  That  is  a  curiously  hot-headed  man,"  remarked  Mr.  Dela 
mayn.  "  If  you  will  allow  me,  I  think  I'll  change  my  mind 
I'll  have  a  glass  of  wine."  f 

Mr.  Vanborough  rose  to  his  feet  without  replying,  and  tool 
a  turn  in  the  room  impatiently.     Scoundrel  as  he  was — in  in, 
tention,  if  not  yet  in  act — the  loss  of  the  oldest  friend  he  ha 
in  the  world  staggered  him  for  the  moment. 

"  This  is  an  awkward  business,  Delamayn,"  he  said.  "  Wha 
would  you  advise  me  to  do  ?" 

Mr.  Delamayn  shook  his  head,  and  sipped  his  claret. 

"  I  decline  to  advise  you,"  he  answered.    "  I  take  no  respoi 


MAN    AND    WIFE.  21 

sibility,  beyond  the   responsibility  of  stating  the   law  as  it 
stands,  in  your  case." 

Mr.  Vanborough  sat  down  again  at  the  table,  to  consider 
the  alternative  of  asserting  or  not  asserting  his  freedom  from 
the  marriage  tie.  He  had  not  had  much  time  thus  far  for 
turning  the  matter  over  in  his  mind.  But  for  his  residence  on 
the  Continent  the  question  of  the  flaw  in  his  marriage  might 
no  doubt  have  been  raised  long  since.  As  things  were,  the 
question  had  only  taken  its  rise  in  a  chance  conversation  with 
Mr.  Delaraayn  in  the  summer  of  that  year. 

For  some  minutes  the  lawyer  sat  silent,  sipping  his  wine, 
and  the  husband  sat  silent,  thinking  his  own  thoughts.  The 
first  change  that  came  over  the  scene  was  produced  by  the  ap- 
pearance of  a  servant  in  the  dining-room. 

Mr.  Vanborough  looked  up  at  the  man  with  a  sudden  out 
break  of  anger. 

"  What  do  you  want  here  ?" 

The  man  was  a  well-bred  English  servant.  In  other  wo.ds, 
a  human  machine,  doing  its  duty  impenetrably  when  it  was 
once  wound  up.  He  had  his  words  to  speak,  and  he  spoke 
them. 

"There  is  a  lady  at  the  door,  sir,  who  wishes  to  see  the 
house." 

"  The  house  is  not  to  be  seen  at  this  time  of  the  evening." 

The  machine  had  a  message  to  deliver,  and  delivered  it. 

"  The  lady  desired  me  to  present  her  apologies,  sir,  I  was 
to  tell  you  she  was  much  pressed  for  time.  This  was  the  last 
house  on  the  house  agent's  list,  and  her  coachman  is  stupid 
about  finding  his  way  in  strange  places." 

"  Hold  your  tongue,  and  tell  the  lady  to  go  to  the  devil !" 

Mr.  Delamayn  interfered  —  partly  in  the  interests  of  his 
client,  partly  in  the  interests  of  propriety. 

"  You  attach  some  importance,  I  think,  to  letting  this  house 
as  soon  as  possible?"  he  said. 

"Of  course  I  do!" 

"  Is  it  wise — on  account  of  a  momentary  annoyance — to  lose 
itiT^ii  opportunity  of  laying  your  hand  on  a  tenant  ?" 
t       "  Wise  or  not,  it's  an  infernal  nuisance  to  be  disturbed  by  a 
stranger." 

"  Just  us  you  please.  I  don't  wish  to  interfere.  I  only  wish 
iJi  to  say — in  case  you  are  thinking  of  my  convenience  as  your 
ii   guest — that  it  will  be  no  nuisance  to  me." 

The  servant  impenetrably  waited.  Mr.  Vanborough  impa- 
;    tiently  gave  way. 

"Very  well.     Let  her  in.     Mind,  if  she  comes  here,  she's 
only  to  look  into  the  room,  and  go  out  again.    If  she  wants  to 
!■«  ask  questions,  she  must  go  to  the  agent." 


I 


.22  MAN    AifD    WIPE. 

Mr.  Delaraayn  interfered  once  more,  in  the  interests,  thi^ 
time,  of  the  lady  of  the  house. 

"  Might  it  not  be  desirable,"  he  suggested,  "  to  consult  Mrs. 
Vanborough  before  you  quite  decide  ?" 

"  Where's  your  mistress  ?" 

"  In  the  garden,  or  the  paddock,  sir — I  am  not  sure  which." 

"  We  can't  send  all  over  the  grounds  in  search  of  her.  Tell 
the  house-maid,  and  show  the  lady  in." 

The  servant  withdrew.  Mr.  Delamayn  helped  himself  to  a 
second  glass  of  wine. 

"  Excellent  claret,"  he  said.  "  Do  you  get  it  direct  from 
Bordeaux?" 

There  was  no  answer.  Mr.  Vanborough  had  returned  to 
the  contemplation  of  the  alternative  between  freeing  himself 
or  not  freeing  himself  from  the  marriage  tie.  One  of  his  el- 
bows was  on  the  table ;  he  bit  fiercely  at  his  finger-nails.  He 
muttered  between  his  teeth,  "What  am  I  to  do?" 

A  sound  of  rustling  silk  made  itself  gently  audible  in  the 
passage  outside.  The  door-  opened,  and  the  lady  who  had 
come  to  see  the  house  appeared  in  the  dining-room. 

IV. 

She  was  tall  and  elegant ;  beautifully  dressed,  in  the  hap- 
piest combination  of  simplicity  and  splendor.  A  light  sum- 
mer veil  hung  over  her  face.  She  lifted  it,  and  made  her  apol- 
ogies for  disturbing  the  gentlemen  over  their  wine,  with  the 
unaffected  ease  and  grace  of  a  highly-bred  woman. 

"  Pray  accept  my  excuses  for  this  intrusion.  I  am  ashamed 
to  disturb  you.     One  look  at  the  room  will  be  quite  enough." 

Thus  far  she  had  addressed  Mr.  Delamayn,  who  happened 
to  be  nearest  to  her.  Looking  round  the  room,  her  eye  fell 
on  Mr.  Vanborough.  She  started,  with  a  loud  exclamation 
of  astonishment.  ^^Youf"  she  said.  "Good  heavens!  who 
would  have  thought  of  meeting  you  here  ?" 

Mr.  Vanborough,  on  his  side,  stood  petrified. 

"Lady  Jane  !"  he  exclaimed.     "  Is  it  possible?" 

He  barely  looked  at  her  while  she  spoke.  His  eyes  wan- 
dered guiltily  toward  the  window  which  led  into  the  garden. 
The  situation  was  a  terrible  one — equally  terrible  if  his  wife 
discovered  Lady  Jane,  or  if  Lady  Jane  discovered  his  wife. 
For  the  moment  nobody  was  visible  on  the  lawn.  There  was 
time,  if  the  chance  only  oflered — there  was  time  for  him  to 
get  the  visitor  out  of  the  house.  The  visitor,  innocent  of  all 
knowledge  of  the  truth,  gayly  offered  him  her  hand. 

"  I  believe  in  mesmerism  for  the  first  time,"  she  said.  "  This 
is  an  instance  of  magnetic  sympathy,  Mr.  Vanborough.  An 
invalid  friend  of  mine  wants  a  furnished  house  at  Hampstead. 


MAN    AND    WIFE.  23 

I  undertake  to  find  one  lor  her,  and  tlie  day  T  select  to  make 
the  discovery  is  the  day  you  select  for  dining  with  a  friend. 
A  last  house  at  Hanipstead  is  left  on  my  list — and  in  that 
house  I  meet  you.  Astonishing !"  She  turned  to  Mr.  Dela- 
mayn.  "  I  presume  I  am  addressing  the  owner  of  the  house  ?" 
Before  a  word  could  be  said  by  either  of  the  gentlemen  she 
noticed  the  garden.  "  What  pretty  grounds  !  Do  I  see  a  lady 
in  the  garden  ?  I  hope  I  have  not  driven  her  away."  She 
looked  round,  and  appealed  to  Mr.  Vanborough.  "  Your 
friend's  wife  ?"  she  asked,  and,  on  this  occasion,  waited  for  a 
reply. 

In  Mr.  Vanborough's  situation  what  reply  was  possible  ? 

Mrs.  Vanborough  was  not  only  visible — but  audible — in  the 
garden ;  giving  her  orders  to  one  of  the  out-of-door  servants 
with  the  tone  and  manner  which  proclaimed  the  mistress  of 
the  house.  Suppose  he  said,  "  She  is  not  my  friend's  wife?" 
Female  curiosity  would  inevitably  put  the  next  question, 
"  Who  is  she  ?"  Suppose  he  invented  an  explanation  ?  The 
explanation  would  take  time,  and  time  would  give  his  wife  an 
opportunity  of  discovering  Lady  Jane.  Seeing  all  these  con- 
siderations in  one  breathless  moment,  Mr.  Vanborough  took 
the  shortest  and  the  boldest  way  out  of  the  difficulty.  He 
answered  silently  by  an  affirmative  inclination  of  the  head, 
which  dexterously  turned  Mrs.  Vanborough  into  Mrs.  Dela- 
mayn,  without  allowing  Mr.  Delamayu  the  opportunity  of 
hearing  it. 

But  the  lawyer's  eye  was  habitually  watchful,  and  the  law- 
yer saw  him. 

Mastering  in  a  moment  his  first  natural  astonishment  at  the 
liberty  taken  with  him,  Mr.  Delamayn  drew  the  inevitable 
conclusion  that  there  was  something  wrong,  and  that  there 
was  an  attempt  (not  to  be  permitted  for  a  moment)  to  mix 
him  up  in  it.  He  advanced,  resolute  to  contradict  his  client, 
to  his  client's  own  face. 

The  voluble  Lady  Jane  interrupted  him  before  he  could 
open  his  lips. 

"  Might  I  ask  one  question  ?  Is  the  aspect  south  ?  Of  course 
it  is !  I  ought  to  see  by  the  sun  that  the  aspect  is  south. 
These  and  the  other  two  are,  I  suppose,  the  only  rooms  on  the 
ground-floor?  And  is  it  quiet?  Of  course  it's  quiet?  A 
charming  house.  Far  more  likely  to  suit  my  friend  than  any 
I  have  seen  yet.  Will  you  give  me  the  refusal  of  it  till  to- 
morrow?" There  she  stopped  for  breath,  and  gave  Mr.  Dela- 
mayn his  first  opportunity  of  speaking  to  her, 

"I  beg  your  ladyship's  pardon,"  he  began.  "I  really 
can't — " 

Mr.  Vanborough — passing  close  behind  him,  and  whispermg 


24  MAN    AND    WIFE. 

as  he  passed — stopped  the  lawyer  before  he  could  say  a  word 
more. 

"  For  God's  sake,  don't  contradict  me  !  My  wife  is  coming 
this  way !" 

At  the  same  moment  (still  supposing  that  Mr.  Delamayn 
was  the  master  of  the  house)  Lady  Jane  returned  to  the 
charge. 

''  You  appear  to  feel  some  hesitation,"  she  said.  "  Do  you 
want  a  reference  ?"  She  smiled  satirically,  and  summoned  her 
friend  to  her  aid.     "  Mr.  Vanborough  !" 

Mr.  Vanborough,  stealing  step  by  step  nearer  to  the  window 
— intent,  come  what  might  of  it,  on  keeping  his  wife  out  of 
the  room — neither  heeded  nor  heard  her.  Lady  Jane  followed 
him,  and  tapped  him  briskly  on  the  shoulder  with  her  parasol. 

At  that  moment  Mrs.  Vanborough  appeared  on  the  garden 
side  of  the  window. 

"Am  I  in  the  way?"  she  asked,  addressing  her  husband, 
after  one  steady  look  at  Lady  Jane.  "  This  lady  appears  to 
be  an  old  friend  of  yours."  There  was  a  tone  of  sarcasm  in 
that  allusion  to  the  parasol,  which  might  develop  into  a  tone 
of  jealousy  at  a  moment's  notice. 

Lady  Jane  was  not  in  the  least  disconcerted.  She  had  her 
double  privilege  of  familiarity  with  the  men  whom  she  liked 
— her  privilege  as  a  woman  of  high  rank,  and  her  privilege  as 
a  young  widow.  She  bowed  to  Mrs.  Vanborough,  with  all 
the  highly-finished  politeness  of  the  order  to  which  she  be- 
longed. 

"The  lady  of  the  house,  I  presume?"  she  said,  with  a  gra- 
cious smile. 

Mrs.  Vanborough  returned  the  bow  coldly  —  entered  the 
room  first — and  then  answered,  "  Yes." 

Lady  Jane  turned  to  Mr.  Vanborough. 

"  Present  me  !"  she  said,  submitting  resignedly  to  the  for- 
malities of  the  middle  classes. 

Mr.  Vanborough  obeyed,  without  looking  at  his  wife,  and 
without  mentioning  his  wife's  name. 

"Lady  Jane  Parnell,"  he  said,  passing  over  the  introduction 
as  rapidly  as  possible.  "Let  me  see  you  to  your  carriage," 
he  added,  offering  his  arm.  "  I  will  take  care  that  you  have 
the  refusal  of  the  house.     You  may  trust  it  all  to  me." 

No !  Lady  Jane  was  accustomed  to  leave  a  favorable  im- 
pression behind  her  wherever  she  went.  It  was  a  habit  with 
her  to  be  charming  (in  widely  different  ways)  to  both  sexes. 
The  social  experience  of  the  upper  classes  is,  in  England,  an 
experience  of  universal  welcome.  Lady  Jane  declined  to  leave 
until  she  had  thawed  the  icy  reception  of  the  lady  of  the 
house. 


MAN    AND    WIFE.  26 

"  I  must  repeat  my  apologies,"  she  said  to  Mrs.  Vanborough, 
"for  coming  at  this  inconvenient  time.  My  intrusion  appears 
to  have  sadly  disturbed  the  two  gentlemen.  Mr.  Vanborough 
looks  as  if  he  wished  me  a  hundred  miles  away.  And  as  for 
your  husband — "  She  stopped  and  glanced  toward  Mr.  Dela- 
mayn.  "Pardon  me  for  speaking  in  that  familiar  way.  I 
have  not  the  pleasure  of  knowing  your  husband's  name." 

In  speechless  amazement  Mrs.  Vanborough's  eyes  followed 
the  direction  of  Lady  Jane's  eyes — and  rested  on  the  lawyer, 
personally  a  total  stranger  to  her. 

Mr.  Delamayn,  resolutely  waiting  his  opportunity  to  speak, 
seized  it  once  more — and  held  it  this  time. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  he  said.  "  There  is  some  misappre- 
hension here,  for  which  I  am  in  no  way  responsible.  I  am  not 
that  lady's  husband." 

It  was  Lady  Jane's  turn  to  be  astonished.  She  looked  at 
the  lawyer.  Useless  !  Mr.  Delamayn  had  set  himself  right — 
Mr.  Delamayn  declined  to  interfere  further.  He  silently  took 
a  chair  at  the  other  end  of  the  room.  Lady  Jane  addressed 
Mr.  Vanborough. 

"  Whatever  the  mistake  may  be,"  she  said,  "  you  are  re- 
sponsible for  it.  You  certainly  told  me  this  lady  was  your 
friend's  wife." 

"  What ! ! !"  cried  Mrs.  Vanborough — loudly,  sternly,  incred- 
ulously. 

The  inbred  pride  of  the  great  lady  began  to  appear  behind 
the  thin  outer  veil  of  jDoliteness  that  covered  it. 

"  I  will  speak  louder  if  you  wish  it,"  she  said.  "  Mr.  Van- 
borough told  me  you  were  that  gentleman's  wife." 

Mr.  Vanborough  whispered  fiercely  to  his  wife  through  his 
clenched  teeth. 

"  The  whole  thing  is  a  mistake.    Go  into  the  garden  again  !" 

Mrs.  Vanborough's  indignation  was  suspended  for  the  mo- 
ment in  dread,  as  she  saw  the  passion  and  the  terror  strug- 
gling in  her  husband's  face. 

"How  you  look  at  me!"  she  said.  "How  you  speak  to 
me!" 

He  only  repeated,  "  Go  into  the  garden  !" 

Lady  Jane  began  to  perceive — what  the  lawyer  had  discov- 
ered some  minutes  previously  —  that  there  was  something 
wrong  in  the  villa  at  Hampstead.  The  lady  of  the  house  was 
a  lady  in  an  anomalous  position  of  some  kind.  And  as  the 
house,  to  all  appearance,  belonged  to  Mr.  Vanborough's  friend, 
Mr.  Vanborough's  friend  must  (in  spite  of  his  recent  disclaim- 
er) be  in  some  way  responsible  for  it.  Arriving,  naturally 
enough,  at  this  erroneous  conclusion,  Lady  Jane's  eyes  rested 
for  an  instant  on  Mrs.  Vanborough  with  a  finely  contemptuous 

2 


26  MAN    AND    WIFK. 

expression  of  inquiry  which  would  have  roused  the  spirit  of 
the  tamest  woman  in  existence.  The  implied  insult  stung  the 
wife's  sensitive  nature  to  tit  Cjuick.  She  turned  once  more  to 
her  husband — this  time  without  flinching. 

'*  Who  is  that  woman  ?"  she  asked. 

Lady  Jane  was  equal  to  the  emergency.  The  manner  in 
which  she  wrapped  herself  up  in  her  own  virtue,  without  the 
slightest  pretension  on  the  one  hand,  and  without  the  slight- 
est compromise  on  the  other,  was  a  sight  to  see. 

"  Mr.  Vanborough,"  she  said,  "  you  offered  to  take  me  to  my 
carriage  just  now.  I  begin  to  understand  that  I  had  better 
have  accepted  the  offer  at  once.     Give  me  your  arm." 

"  Stop !"  said  Mrs.  Vanborough,  "  your  ladyship's  looks  are 
looks  of  contempt ;  your  ladyship's  words  can  bear  but  one  in- 
terpretation. I  am  innocently  involved  in  some  vile  deception 
which  I  don't  understand.  But  this  I  do  know — I  won't  sub- 
mit to  be  insulted  in  my  own  house.  After  what  you  have 
just  said,  I  forbid  my  husband  to  give  you  his  arm." 

Her  husband  ! 

Lady  Jane  looked  at  Mr.  Vanborough — at  Mr.  Vanborough, 
whom  she  loved  ;  whom  she  had  honestly  believed  to  be  a, 
■single  man ;  whom  she  had  suspected,  up  to  that  moment,  of 
nothing  worse  than  of  trying  to  screen  the  frailties  of  his 
friend.  She  dropped  her  highly-bred  tone ;  she  lost  her  high- 
ly-bred manners.  The  sense  of  her  injury  (if  this  was  true), 
the  pang  of  her  jealousy  (if  that  woman  teas  his  wife),  stripped 
the  human  nature  in  her  bare  of  all  disguises,  raised  the  angry 
color  in  her  cheeks,  and  struck  the  angry  fire  out  of  her  eyes. 

"  If  you  can  tell  the  truth,  sir,"  she  said,  haughtily,  "  be  so 
good  as  to  tell  it  now.  Have  you  been  falsely  presenting 
yourself  to  the  world— falsely  presenting  yourself  to  me—m 
the  character  and  with  the  aspirations  of  a  single  man  ?  Is 
that  lady  your  wife  ?" 

"Do  you  hear  her?  do  you  see  her?"  cried  Mrs.  Vanbor- 
ough, appealing  to  her  husband,  in  her  turn.  She  suddenly 
drew  back  from  him,  shuddering  from  head  to  foot.  "He 
hesitates  !"  she  said  to  herself,  faintly.  "  Good  God  !  he  hesi- 
tates !" 

Lady  Jane  sternly  repeated  her  question. 

"Is  that  lady  your  wife?" 

He  roused  his  scoundrel-courage,  and  said  the  fatal  word : 

"No!" 

Mrs.  Vanborough  staggei-ed  back.  She  caught  at  the  white 
curtains  of  the  window  to  save  herself  from  falling,  and  tore 
them.  She  looked  at  her  husband,  with  the  torn  curtain 
clenched  fast  in  her  hand.  She  asked  herself,  "  Am  I  mad  ?  or 
18  he  ?" 


MAN    AND    WIPB.  2*1 

Lady  Jane  drew  a  deep  breath  of  relief.  He  was  not  mar- 
ried !  He  was  only  a  profligate  single  man.  A  pi'ofligate  sin- 
gle man  is  shocking — but  reclaimable.  It  is  possible  to  blame 
him  severely,  and  to  insibc  on  his  I'eformation  in  the  most  un- 
compromising terms.  It  is  also  possible  to  forgive  him,  and 
marry  him.  Lady  Jane  took  the  necessary  position  under  the 
circumstances  with  perfect  tact.  She  inflicted  reproof  in  the 
present  without  excluding  hope  in  the  future. 

"I  have  made  a  very  painful  discovery,"  she  said,  gravely, 
to  Mr.  Vanborough.  "  It  rests  with  you  to  persuade  me  to 
forget  it !     Good-evening  !" 

She  accompanied  the  last  words  by  a  farewell  look  which 
aroused  Mrs.  Vanborough  to  frenzy.  She  sprang  forward  and 
prevented  Lady  Jane  from  leaving  the  room. 

"  No  !"  she  said.     "  You  don't  go  yet !" 

Mr.  Vanborough  came  forward  to  interfere.  His  wife  eyed 
him  with  a  terrible  look,  and  turned  from  him  with  a  terrible 
contempt.  "That  man  has  lied!"  she  said.  "In  justice  to 
myself,  I  insist  on  proving  it !"  She  struck  a  bell  on  a  table 
near  her.  The  servant  came  in.  "  Fetch  my  writing-desk  out 
of  the  next  room."  She  waited — with  her  back  turned  on  her 
husband,  with  her  eyes  fixed  on  Lady  Jane.  Defenseless  and 
alone  she  stood  on  the  wreck  of  her  married  life,  sujierior  to 
the  husband's  treachery,  the  lawyer's  indifi'erence,  and  her  ri- 
val's contempt.  At  that  dreadful  moment  her  beauty  ahone 
out  again  witli  a  gleam  of  its  old  glory.  The  grand  woman, 
who  in  the  old  stage  days  had  held  thousands  breathlese  over 
the  mimic  woes  of  the  scene,  stood  there  grander  than  ever, 
in  her  own  woe,  and  held  the  three  people  who  looked  at  her 
breathless  till  she  spoke  again. 

The  servant  came  in  with  the  desk.  She  took  out  a  paper 
and  handed  it  to  Lady  Jane. 

"  I  was  a  singer  on  the  stage,"  she  said,  "  when  I  was  a  sin- 
gle woman.  The  slander  to  which  such  women  are  exposed 
doubted  my  marriage.  I  provided  myself  with  the  paper  in 
your  hand.  It  speaks  for  itself.  Even  the  highest  society, 
madam,  respects  that/" 

Lady  Jane  examined  the  paper.  It  was  a  marriage-certifi- 
cate. She  turned  deadly  pale,  and  beckoned  to  Mr.  Vanbor- 
ough.    "  Are  you  deceiving  me  ?"  she  asked. 

Mr.  Vanborough  looked  back  into  the  far  corner  of  the 
room,  in  which  the  lawyer  sat,  impenetrably  waiting  for 
events.     "  Oblige  me  by  coming  here  for  a  moment,"  he  said. 

Mr.  Delamayn  rose  and  complied  with  the  request.  Mr. 
Vanborough  addressed  himself  to  Lady  Jane. 

"  I  beg  to  refer  you  to  my  man  of  business.  JETe  is  not  in- 
terested in  deceiving  you." 


28  MATsT    AND   WIFE. 

"  Am  I  required  simply  to  speak  to  the  fact  ?"  asked  Mr. 
Delamayn.     "  I  decline  to  do  more." 

"  You  are  not  wanted  to  do  more." 

Listening  intently  to  that  interchange  of  question  and  an- 
swer, Mrs.  Vanborough  advanced  a  step  in  silence.  The  high 
courage  that  had  sustained  her  against  outrage  which  had 
openly  declared  itself  shrank  under  the  sense  of  something 
coming  which  she  had  not  foreseen.  A  nameless  dread  throb- 
bed at  her  heart  and  crept  among  the  roots  of  her  hair. 

Lady  Jane  handed  the  certificate  to  the  lawyer. 

"  In  two  words,  sir,"  she  said,  imjDatiently, "  what  is  this  ?" 

•'  Li  two  words,  madam,"  answered  Mr.  Delamayn ;  "  waste 
paper." 

"  He  is  not  married  ?" 

"  He  is  not  married." 

After  a  moment's  hesitation  Lady  Jane  looked  round  at 
Mrs,  Vanborough,  standing  silent  at  her  side  —  looked,  and 
started  back  in  terror.  "  Take  me  away  !"  she  cried,  shrink- 
ing from  the  ghastly  face  that  confronted  her  with  the  fixed 
stare  of  agony  in  the  great,  glittering  eyes.  "  Take  me  away  ! 
That  woman  will  murder  me !" 

Mr.  Vanborough  gave  her  his  arm  and  led  her  to  the  door. 
There  was  dead  silence  in  the  room  as  he  did  it.  Step  by  step 
the  wife's  eyes  followed  them  with  the  same  dreadful  stare, 
'till  the  door  closed  and  shut  them  out.  The  lawyer,  left  alone 
with  the  disowned  and  deserted  woman,  put  the  useless  cer- 
tificate silently  on  the  table.  She  looked  from  him  to  the  pa- 
per, and  dropped,  without  a  cry  to  warn  him,  without  an  effort 
to  save  herself,  senseless  at  his  feet. 

He  lifted  her  from  the  floor  and  placed  her  on  the  sofa,  and 
waited  to  see  if  Mr.  Vanborough  would  come  back.  Looking 
at  the  beautiful  face — still  beautiful,  even  in  the  swoon — he 
owned  it  was  hard  on  her.  Yes !  in  his  own  impenetrable 
way,  the  rising  lawyer  owned  it  was  hard  on  her. 

But  the  law  justified  it.  There  was  no  doubt  in  this  case. 
The  law  justified  it. 

The  trampling  of  horses  and  the  grating  of  wheels  sounded 
outside.  Lady  Jane's  carriage  was  driving  away.  Would  the 
husband  come  back  ?  (See  what  a  thing  habit  is  !  Even  Mr. 
Delamayn  still  mechanically  thought  of  him  as  the  husband — 
in  the  face  of  the  law  !  in  the  face  of  the  facts  !) 

No.  The  minutes  passed.  And  no  sign  of  the  husband 
coming  back. 

It  was  not  wise  to  make  a  scandal  in  the  house.  It  was  not 
desirable  (on  his  own  sole  responsibility)  to  let  the  servants 
see  what  had  happened.  Still,  there  she  lay  senseless.  The 
cool  evening  air  came  in  through  the  open  window  and  lifted 


MAX   AXD    WIFE.  29 

the  liglit  ribbons  in  her  lace  cap,  lifted  the  little  lock  of  hair 

that  had  broken  loose  and  drooped  over  her  neck.  Still,  there 
she  lay — the  wife  who  had  loved  him,  the  mother  of  his  child 
— there  she  lay. 

He  stretched  out  his  hand  to  ring  the  bell  and  summon  help. 

At  the  same  moment  the  quiet  of  the  summer  evening  was 
once  more  disturbed.  He  held  his  hand  suspended  over  the 
bell.  The  noise  outside  came  nearer.  It  was  again  the  tram- 
pling of  horses  and  the  grating  of  wheels.  Advancing — rapid- 
ly advancing — stopping  at  the  house. 

Was  Lady  Jane  coming  back  ? 

Was  the  husband  coming  back  ? 

There  was  a  loud  ring  at  the  bell — a  quick  opening  of  the 
house-door  —  a  rustling  of  a  w'oman's  dress  in  the  passage. 
The  door  of  the  room  opened,  and  the  woman  appeared  — 
alone.  Not  Lady  Jane.  A  stranger — older,  years  older,  than 
Lady  Jane.  A  plain  w^oman,  perhaps,  at  other  times.  A 
woman  almost  beautiful,  now,  with  the  eager  happiness  that 
beamed  in  her  face. 

She  saw  the  figure  on  the  sofa.  She  ran  to  it  with  a  cry — 
a  cry  of  i-ecognition  and  a  cry  of  terror  in  one.  She  dropped 
on  her  knees — and  laid  that  helpless  head  on  her  bosom,  and 
kissed,  with  a  sister's  kisses,  that  cold,  white  cheek. 

"  Oh,  my  darling  !"  she  said.     "  Is  it  thus  we  meet  again  ?" 

Yes !  After  all  the  years  that  had  passed  since  the  parting 
in  the  cabin  of  the  ship,  it  was  thus  the  two  school-friends  met 
again. 

Part  tl)e  Second. 

THE  MARCH  OF  TIME. 

V. 

Advancing  from  time  past  to  time  present,  the  Prologue 
leaves  the  date  last  attained  (the  summer  of  eighteen  hundred 
and  fifty-five),  and  travels  on  through  an  interval  of  twelve 
years  —  tells  who  lived,  who  died,  who  prospered,  and  who 
failed  among  the  persons  concerned  in  the  tragedy  at  the 
Hampstead  villa  —  and,  this  done,  leaves  the  reader  at  the 
opening  of  The  Story,  in  the  spring  of  eighteen  hundred  and 
sixty-eight. 

The  record  begins  with  a  marriage — the  marriage  of  Mr. 
Vanborough  and  Lady  Jane  Parnell. 
In  three  months  from  the  memorable  day  when  his  solicitor 


30  MAN   AND    WIFE. 

had  informed  hira  that  he  was  a  free  man,  Mr.  Vanboroiigh 
possessed  the  wife  he  desired,  to  grace  the  head  of  his  table 
and  to  push  his  fortunes  in  the  world  —  the  Legislature  of 
Great  Britain  being  the  humble  servant  of  his  treachery,  and 
the  respectable  accomplice  of  his  crime. 

He  entered  Parliament.  He  gave  (thanks  to  his  wife)  six 
of  the  grandest  dinners,  and  two  of  the  most  crowded  balls  of 
the  season.  He  made  a  successful  first  speech  in  the  House 
of  Commons.  He  endowed  a  church  in  a  poor  neighborhood. 
He  wrote  an  article  which  attracted  attention  in  a  quarterly- 
review.  Ho  discovered,  denounced,  and  remedied  a  crying 
abuse  in  the  administration  of  a  public  charity.  He  received 
(thanks  once  more  to  his  wife)  a  member  of  the  Royal  family 
among  the  visitors  at  his  country  house  in  the  autumn  recess. 
These  were  his  triumphs,  and  this  his  rate  of  progress  on  the 
way  to  the  peerage,  during  the  first  year  of  his  life  as  the  hus- 
band of  Lady  Jane. 

There  was  but  one  more  favor  that  Fortune  could  confer 
on  her  spoiled  child — and  Fortune  bestowed  it.  There  wl.s  a 
spot  on  Mr.  Vanborough's  past  life  as  long  as  the  woman  lived 
whom  he  had  disowned  and  deserted.  At  the  end  of  the  first 
year  Death  took  her — and  the  spot  was  rubbed  out. 

She  had  met  the  merciless  injury  inflicted  on  her  with  a  rare 
patience,  with  an  admirable  courage.  It  is  due  to  Mr.  Van- 
borough  to  admit  that  he  broke  her  heart,  with  the  strictest 
attention  to  propriety.  He  offered  (through  his  lawyer)  a 
handsome  provision  for  her  and  for  her  child.  It  was  rejected, 
without  an  instant's  hesitation.  She  repudiated  his  money — 
she  repudiated  his  name.  By  the  name  which  she  had  borne 
in  her  maiden  days — the  name  which  she  had  made  illustrious 
in  her  Art — the  mother  and  daughter  Avere  known  to  all  who 
cared  to  inquire  after  them  when  they  had  sunk  in  the  world. 

There  was  no  false  pride  in  the  resolute  attitude  which  she 
thus  assumed  after  her  husband  had  forsaken  her.  Mrs.  Sil- 
vester (as  she  was  now  called)  gratefully  accepted  for  herself, 
and  for  Miss  Silvester,  the  assistance  of  the  dear  old  friend 
who  had  found  her  again  in  her  aflliction,  and  who  remained 
faithful  to  her  to  the  end.  They  lived  with  Lady  Lundie  un- 
til the  mother  was  strong  enough  to  carry  out  the  plan  of  life 
which  she  had  arranged  for  the  future,  and  to  earn  her  bread 
as  a  teacher  of  singing.  To  all  appearance  she  rallied,  and  be- 
came herself  again,  in  a  few  months'  time.  She  was  making 
her  way ;  she  was  winning  sympathy,  confidence,  and  respect 
everywhere — when  she  sank  suddenly  at  the  opening  of  her 
new  life.  Nobody  could  account  for  it.  The  doctors  them- 
selves were  divided  in  opinion.  Scientifically  speakina'.  tliere 
was  no  reason  why  she  should  die.     It  was  a  mere  figure  of 


MAN   AND   WIFB.  31 

speech — in  no  degree  satisfactory  to  any  reasonable  mind — to 
say,  as  Lady  Lundie  said,  that  she  had  got  her  death-blow  on 
the  day  when  her  husband  deserted  her.  The  one  thing  cer- 
tain was  the  fact — account  for  it  as  you  might.  In  spite  of 
science  (which  meant  little),  in  spite  of  her  own  courage  (which 
meant  much),  the  woman  dropped  at  her  post  and  died. 

In  the  latter  part  of  her  illness  her  mind  gave  way.  The 
friend  of  her  old  school-days,  sitting  at  the  bedside,  heard  her 
talking  as  if  she  thought  herself  back  again  in  the  cabin  of  the 
ship.  The  poor  soul  found  the  tone,  almost  the  look,  that  had 
been  lost  for  so  many  years — the  tone  of  the  past  time  when 
the  two  girls  had  gone  their  different  ways  in  the  world.  She 
said,  "We  will  meet,  darling,  with  all  the  old  love  between  us," 
just  as  she  had  said  almost  a  lifetime  since.  Before  the  end 
her  mind  rallied.  She  surprised  the  doctor  and  the  nurse  by 
begging  them  gently  to  leave  the  room.  When  they  had  gone 
she  looked  at  Lady  Lundie,  and  woke,  as  it  seemed,  to  con- 
sciousness from  a  dream. 

"  Blanche,"  she  said,  "  you  will  take  care  of  my  child  ?" 

"  She  shall  be  my  child,  Anne,  when  you  are  gone." 

The  dying  woman  paused,  and  thought  for  a  little.  A  sud- 
den trembling  seized  her. 

"  Keep  it  a  secret !"  she  said.     "  I  am  afraid  for  my  child." 

"Afraid?     After  what  I  have  promised  you  ?" 

She  solemnly  repeated  the  woi'ds,  "  I  am  afraid  for  my  child." 

"  Why  ?" 

"  My  Anne  is  my  second  self — isn't  she  ?" 

«  Yes." 

"  She  is  as  fond  of  your  child  as  I  was  of  you  ?" 

"  Yes." 

"  She  is  not  called  by  her  father's  name — she  is  called  by 
mine.  She  is  Anne  Silvester,  as  I  was.  Blanche !  Will  she 
end  like  Me .?" 

The  question  was  put  with  the  laboring  breath,  with  the 
heavy  accents  which  tell  that  death  is  near.  It  chilled  the 
living  woman  who  heard  it  to  the  marrow  of  her  bones. 

"  Don't  think  that !"  she  cried,  horror-struck.  "  For  God's 
sake,  don't  think  that !" 

The  wildness  began  to  appear  again  in  Anne  Silvester's  eyes. 
She  made  feebly-impatient  signs  with  her  hands.  Lady  Lun- 
die bent  over  her,  and  heard  her  whisper,  "  Lift  me  up." 

She  lay  in  her  friend's  arms;  she  looked  up  in  her  friend's 
face ;  she  went  back  wildly  to  her  fear  for  her  child. 

"  Don't  bring  her  up  like  Me  !  She  must  be  a  governess — 
she  must  get  her  bread.  Don't  let  her  act !  don't  let  her  sing  ! 
don't  let  her  go  on  the  stage  !"  She  stopped — her  voice  sud- 
denly recovered  its  sweetness  of  tone  —  she  smiled  faintly — 


32  MAN   AND   WIPE. 

she  said  the  old  girlish  words  once  more,  in  the  old  girlish 
way,  "  Vow  it,  Blanche  !"  Lady  Lundie  kissed  her,  and  an- 
swered, as  she  had  answered  when  they  parted  in  the  ship, 
"  I  vow  it,  Anne  !" 

The  head  sank,  never  to  be  lifted  more.  The  last  look  of 
life  flickered  in  the  filmy  eyes  and  went  out.  For  a  moment 
afterward  her  lips  moved.  Lady  Lundie  put  her  ear  close  to 
them,  and  heard  the  dreadful  question  reiterated,  in  the  same 
dreadful  words :  "  She  is  Anne  Silvester — as  I  was.  Will  she 
end  like  Me  P' 

VI. 

Five  years  jjassed — and  the  lives  of  the  three  men  who  had 
sat  at  the  dinner-table  in  the  Hampstead  villa  began,  in  their 
altered  aspects,  to  reveal  the  progress  of  time  and  change. 

Mro  Kendrew  ;  Mr.  Delamayn  ;  Mr.  Vanborough.  Let  the 
order  in  which  they  are  here  named  be  the  order  in  which 
their  lives  are  reviewed,  as  seen  once  more  after  a  lapse  of  five 
years. 

How  the  husband's  friend  marked  his  sense  of  the  husband's 
treachery  has  been  told  already.  How  he  felt  the  death  of 
the  deserted  wife  is  still  left  to  tell.  ReiDort,  which  sees  the 
inmost  hearts  of  men,  and  delights  in  turning  them  outward 
to  the  public  view,  had  always  declared  that  Mr.  Kendrew's 
life  had  its  secret,  and  that  the  secret  was  a  hopeless  passion 
for  the  beautiful  woman  who  had  married  his  friend.  Not  a 
hint  ever  dropped  to  any  living  soul,  not  a  woi'd  ever  spoken 
to  the  woman  herself,  could  be  produced  in  proof  of  the  asser- 
tion while  the  woman  lived.  When  she  died,  Report  started 
up  again  more  confidently  than  ever,  and  appealed  to  the 
man's  own  conduct  as  proof  against  the  man  himselC 

He  attended  the  funeral — though  he  was  no  relation.  He 
took  a  few  blades  of  grass  from  the  turf  with  which  they  cov- 
ered her  grave — when  he  thought  that  nobody  was  looking  at 
him.  He  disappeared  from  his  club.  He  traveled.  He  came 
back.  He  admitted  that  he  was  weary  of  England.  He  ap- 
plied for,  and  obtained,  an  appointment  in  one  of  the  colonies. 
To  what  conclusion  did  all  this  point  ?  Was  it  not  plain  that 
his  usual  course  of  life  had  lost  its  attraction  for  him,  when  the 
object  of  his  infatuation  had  ceased  to  exist  ?  It  might  have 
been  so — guesses  less  likely  have  been  made  at  the  truth,  and 
have  hit  the  mark.  It  is,  at  any  rate,  certain  that  he  left  En- 
gland, never  to  return  again.  Another  man  lost,  Report  said. 
Add  to  that,  a  man  in  ten  thousand  —  and,  for  once.  Report 
might  claim  to  be  right. 

Mr.  Delamayn  comes  next. 

The  rising  solicitor  was  struck  oflT  the  roll,  at  his  own  re- 


MAN   AND   WIFB.  33 

2uest — and  entered  himself  as  a  student  at  one  of  the  Inns  of 
lonrt.  For  three  years  nothing  was  known  of  him  but  that 
he  was  reading  hard  and  keeping  his  terms.  He  was  called  to 
the  Bar,  His  late  partners  in  the  firm  knew  they  could  trust 
him,  and  put  business  into  his  hands.  In  two  years  he  made 
himself  a  position  in  Court.  At  the  end  of  the  two  years  he 
made  himself  a  position  out  of  Court.  He  appeared  as  "  Jun- 
ior "  in  "  a  famous  case,"  in  which  the  honor  of  a  great  fami- 
ly, and  the  title  to  a  great  estate  were  concerned.  His  "  Sen- 
ior" fell  ill  on  the  eve  of  the  trial.  He  conducted  the  case 
for  the  defendant  and  won  it.  The  defendant  said,  "  What 
can  I  do  for  you?"  Mi*.  Delamayn  answered,  "Put  rae  into 
Parliament."  Being  a  landed  gentleman,  the  defendant  had 
only  to  issue  the  necessary  orders — and  behold,  Mr.  Delamayn 
was  in  Parliament ! 

In  the  House  of  Commons  the  new  member  and  Mr.  Van- 
borough  met  again. 

They  sat  on  the  same  bench,  and  sided  with  the  same  party. 
Mr.  Delamayn  noticed  that  Mr.  Vanborough  was  looking  old 
and  worn  and  gray.  He  put  a  few  questions  to  a  well-inform- 
ed person.  The  well-informed  person  shook  his  head.  Mr. 
Vanborough  was  rich  ;  Mr.  Vanborough  was  well-conuected 
(through  his  wife) ;  Mr.  Vanborough  was  a  sound  man  in  every 
sense  of  the  word ;  but — nobody  liked  him.  He  had  done  very 
well  the  first  year,  and  there  it  had  ended.  He  was  undenia- 
bly clever,  but  he  produced  a  disagi'eeable  impression  in  the 
House.  He  gave  splendid  entertainments,  but  he  wasn't  pop- 
ular in  society.  His  party  respected  him,  but  when  they  had 
any  thing  to  give  they  passed  him  over.  He  had  a  temper  of 
his  own,  if  the  truth  must  be  told ;  and  with  nothing  against 
him — on  the  contrary,  with  every  thing  in  his  favor — he  didn't 
make  friends.  A  soured  man.  At  home  and  abroad,  a  soured 
man. 

VII. 

Five  years  more  passed,  dating  from  the  day  when  the  de- 
serted wife  was  laid  in  her  grave.  It  was  now  the  year  eight- 
een hundred  and  sixty-six. 

On  a  certain  day  in  that  year  two  special  items  of  news  ap- 
peared in  the  papers — the  news  of  an  elevation  to  the  peerage, 
and  the  news  of  a  suicide. 

Getting  on  well  at  the  Bar,  Mr.  Delamayn  got  on  better  still 
in  Parliament.  He  became  one  of  the  prominent  men  in  the 
House.  Spoke  clearly,  sensibly,  and  modestly,  and  was  never 
too  long.  Held  the  House,  where  men  of  higher  abilities 
"  bored"  it.  The  chiefs  of  his  party  said  openly,  "  We  must 
do  something  for  Delamayn."     The  opportunity  offered,  and 


34  MAN    AND   WIFE, 

the  chiefs  kept  their  word.  Their  Solicitor-General  was  ad- 
vanced a  step,  and  they  put  Delamayn  in  his  place.  There  was 
an  outcry  on  the  part  of  the  oldei-  members  of  the  Bar.  The 
Ministry  answered,  "  We  want  a  man  who  is  listened  to  in  the 
House,  and  we  have  got  him."  The  pa))ers  supported  the  new 
nomination.  A  great  debate  came  off,  and  the  new  Solicitor- 
General  justified  the  Ministry  and  the  papers.  His  enemies 
said,  derisively,  "  He  will  be  Lord  Chancellor  in  a  year  or 
two  !"  His  friends  made  genial  jokes  in  his  domestic  circle, 
which  pointed  to  the  same  conclusion.  They  warned  his  two 
sons,  Julius  and  Geoffrey  (then  at  college),  to  be  careful  what 
acquaintances  they  made,  as  they  might  find  themselves  the 
sons  of  a  lord  at  a  moment's  notice.  It  really  began  to  look 
like  something  of  the  sort.  Always  rising,  Mr.  Delamayn  rose 
next  to  be  Attorney-General.  About  the  same  time — so  true 
it  is  that"  nothing  succeeds  like  success" — a  childless  relative 
died  and  left  him  a  fortune.  In  the  summer  of  'sixty-six  a 
Chief  Judgeship  fell  vacant.  The  Ministry  had  made  a  previ- 
ous appointment  which  had  been  universally  unpopular.  They 
saw  their  way  to  supplying  the  place  of  their  Attorney-Gen- 
eral, and  they  offered  the  judicial  appointment  to  Mr.  Dela- 
mayn. He  preferred  remaining  in  the  House  of  Commons,  and 
refused  to  accept  it.  The  Ministry  declined  to  take  No  for  an 
answer.  They  whispered,  confidentially,"  Will  you  take  it  with 
a  peerage  ?"  Mr.  Delamayn  consulted  his  wife,  and  took  it 
with  a  peerage.  The  London  Gazette  announced  him  to  the 
world  as  Baron  Holchester  of  Holchester.  And  the  friends  of 
the  family  rubbed  their  hands  and  said,  "  What  did  we  tell 
you  ?  Here  are  our  two  young  friends,  Julius  and  Geoffrey, 
the  sons  of  a  lord  !" 

And  where  was  Mr.  Vanborough  all  this  time  ?  Exactly 
where  we  left  him  five  years  since. 

He  was  as  rich,  or  richer,  than  ever.  He  was  as  well-con- 
nected as  ever.  He  was  as  ambitious  as  ever.  But  there  it 
ended.  He  stood  still  in  the  House  ;  he  stood  still  in  society ; 
nobody  liked  him ;  he  made  no  friends.  It  was  all  the  old 
story  over  again,  with  this  diffei'ence,  that  the  sour  man  was 
sourer  ;  the  gray  head,  grayer  ;  and  the  irritable  temper  more 
unendurable  than  ever.  His  wife  had  her  rooms  in  the  house 
and  he  had  his,  and  the  confidential  servants  took  care  that 
they  never  met  on  the  stairs.  They  had  no  children.  They 
only  saw  each  other  at  their  grand  dinners  and  balls.  People 
ate  at  their  table,  and  danced  on  their  floor,  and  compared 
notes  afterward,  and  said  how  dull  it  was.  Step  by  step  the 
man  who  had  once  been  Mr.  Vanborough's  lawyer  rose,  till  the 
peerage  received  him,  and  he  could  rise  no  longer ;  while  Mr. 
Vanborough,  on  the  lower  round  of  the  ladder,  looked  up  and 


MAN    AND    WIFE.  37 

noted  it,  with  no  more  chance  (rich  as  he  was  and  well-con- 
nected as  he  was)  of  climbing  to  the  House  of  Lords  than  your 
chance  or  mine. 

The  man's  career  was  ended  ;  and  on  the  day  when  the 
nomination  of  the  new  peer  was  announced,  the  man  ended 
with  it. 

He  laid  the  newspaper  aside  without  making  any  remark, 
and  went  out.  His  carriage  set  him  down,  where  the  green 
fields  still  remain,  on  the  north-west  of  London,  near  the  foot- 
path which  leads  to  Hampstead.  He  walked  alone  to  the 
villa  where  he  had  once  lived  with  the  woman  whom  he  had 
so  cruelly  wronged.  New  houses  had  risen  round  it,  part  of 
the  old  garden  had  been  sold  and  built  on.  After  a  moment's 
hesitation,  he  went  to  the  gate  and  rang  the  bell.  He  gave 
the  servant  his  card.  The  servant's  master  knew  the  name  as 
the  name  of  a  man  of  great  wealth,  and  of  a  Member  of  Par- 
liament. He  asked  politely  to  what  fortunate  circumstance 
he  owed  the  honor  of  that  visit.  Mr.  Vanborough  answered 
briefly  and  simply,  I  once  lived  here  ;  I  have  associations  with 
the  place  with  which  it  is  not  necessary  for  me  to  trouble  you. 
Will  you  excuse  what  must  seem  to  you  a  very  strange  re- 
quest ?  I  should  like  to  see  the  dining-room  again,  if  there  is 
no  objection,  and  if  I  am  disturbing  nobody." 

The  "  strange  requests  "  of  rich  men  are  of  the  nature  of 
"  privileged  communications,"  for  this  excellent  reason,  that 
they  are  sure  not  to  be  requests  for  money.  Mr.  Vanborough 
was  shown  into  the  dining-room.  The  master  of  the  house, 
secretly  wondering,  watched  him. 

He  walked  straight  to  a  certain  spot  on  the  carpet,  not  far 
from  the  window  that  led  into  the  garden,  and  nearly  opposite 
the  door.  On  that  spot  he  stood  silently,  with  his  head  on 
his  breast — thinking.  Was  it  there  he  had  seen  her  for  the 
last  time,  on  the  day  when  he  left  the  room  forever?  Y^es; 
it  was  there.  After  a  minute  or  so  he  roused  himself,  but  in 
a  dreamy,  absent  manner.  He  said  it  was  a  pretty  place,  and 
expressed  his  thanks,  and  looked  back  before  the  door  closed, 
and  then  went  his  way  again.  His  carriage  picked  him  up 
where  it  had  set  him  down.  He  drove  to  the  residence  of 
the  new  Lord  Holchestei',  and  left  a  card  for  him.  Then  he 
went  home.  Arrived  at  his  house,  his  secretary  reminded  him 
that  he  had  an  appointment  in  ten  minutes'  time.  He  thanked 
the  secretary  in  the  same  dreamy,  absent  manner  in  which  he 
had  thanked  the  owner  of  the  villa,  and  went  into  his  dressing- 
room.  The  person  with  whom  he  had  made  the  appointment 
came,  and  the  secretary  sent  the  valet  up  stairs  to  knock  at 
the  door.  There  was  no  answer.  On  trying  the  lock,  it  proved 
to  be  turned  inside.     Thej  broke  open  the  door,  and  saw  him 


38  MAN    AND    WIFB. 

lying  on  the  sofa.      They  went  close  to  look — and  found  him 
dead  by  his  own  hand. 

VIII. 

Drawing  fast  to  its  close,  the  Prologue  reverts  to  the  two 
girls — and  tells,  in  a  few  words,  how  the  years  passed  with 
Anne  and  Blanche. 

Lady  Lundie  more  than  redeemed  the  solemn  pledge  that 
she  had  given  to  her  friend.  Preserved  from  every  tempta- 
tion which  might  lure  her  into  a  longing  to  follow  her  moth- 
er's career;  trained  for  a  teacher's  life,  with  all  the  arts  and 
all  the  advantages  that  money  could  procure,  Anne's  first  and 
only  essays  as  a  governess  were  made,  under  Lady  Lundie's 
own  roof,  on  Lady  Lundie's  own  child.  The  difference  in  the 
ages  of  the  girls — seven  years — the  love  between  them,  which 
seemed,  as  time  went  on,  to  grow  with  their  growth,  favored 
the  trial  of  the  experiment.  In  the  double  relation  of  teacher 
and  friend  to  little  Blanche,  the  girlhood  of  Anne  Silvester  the 
youngest  passed  safely,  happily,  uneventfully,  in  the  modest 
sanctuary  of  home.  Who  could  imagine  a  contrast  more  com- 
plete than  the  contrast  between  her  early  life  and  her  moth- 
er's ?  Who  could  see  any  thing  but  a  death-bed  delusion  in 
the  terrible  question  which  had  tortured  the  mother's  last  mo- 
ments :  "  Will  she  end  like  Me  ?" 

But  two  events  of  importance  occurred  in  the  quiet  family 
circle  during  the  lapse  of  years  which  is  now  under  review. 
In  eighteen  hundred  and  fifty-eight  the  household  was  enliv- 
ened by  the  arrival  of  Sir  Thomas  Lundie.  In  eighteen  hun- 
dred and  sixty-five  the  household  was  broken  up  by  the  return 
of  Sir  Thomas  to  India,  accompanied  by  his  wife. 

Lady  Lundie's  health  had  been  failing  for  some  time  previ- 
ously. The  medical  men,  consulted  on  the  case,  agreed  that  a 
sea-voyage  was  the  one  change  needful  to  restore  their  pa- 
tient's wasted  strength — exactly  at  the  time,  as  it  happened, 
when  Sir  Thomas  was  due  again  in  India.  For  his  wife's  sake, 
he  agreed  to  defer  his  return,  by  taking  the  sea-voyage  with 
her.  The  one  difficulty  to  get  over  was  the  difficulty  of  leav- 
ing Blanche  and  Anne  behind  in  England, 

Appealed  to  on  this  point,  the  doctors  had  declared  that  at 
Blanche's  critical  time  of  life  they  could  not  sanction  her  go- 
ing to  India  with  her  mother.  At  the  same  time,  near  and 
dear  relatives  came  forward,  who  were  ready  and  anxious  to 
give  Blanche  and  her  governess  a  home — Sir  Thomas,  on  his 
side,  engaging  to  bring  his  wife  back  in  a  year  and  a  half,  or, 
at  most,  in  two  years'  time.  Assailed  in  all  directions,  Lady 
Lundie's  natural  unwillingness  to  leave  the  girls  was  overruled. 
She  consented  to  the  parting — with  a  mind  secretly  depressed, 
and  secretly  doubtful  of  the  future. 


MAN   AND   WIPE.  89 

At  the  last  moment  she  drew  Anne  Silvester  on  one  side, 
out  of  hearing  of  the  rest.  Anne  was  then  a  young  woman 
of  twenty-two,  and  Blanche  a  girl  of  fifteen. 

"My  dear,"  she  said,  simply,  "I  must  tell  you  what  I  can 
not  tell  Sir  Thomas,  and  what  I  am  afraid  to  tell  Blanche.  I 
am  going  away,  with  a  mind  that  misgives  me.  I  am  per- 
suaded I  shall  not  live  to  return  to  England;  and,  when  I  am 
dead,  I  believe  my  husband  will  marry  again.  Years  ago  your 
mother  was  imeasy,  on  her  death-bed,  about  yotir  future.  I 
am  uneasy,  now,  about  Blanche's  future.  I  promised  my  dear 
dead  friend  that  you  should  be  like  my  own  child  to  me — and 
it  quieted  her  mind.  Quiet  my  mind,  Anne,  before  I  go.  What- 
ever happens  in  years  to  come — promise  me  to  be  always,  what 
you  are  now,  a  sister  to  Blanche." 

She  held  out  her  hand  for  the  last  time.  With  a  full  heart 
Anne  Silvester  kissed  it,  and  gave  the  promise. 

IX. 

In  two  months  from  that  time  one  of  the  forebodings  Avhich 
had  weighed  on  Lady  Lundie's  mind  was  fulfilled.  She  died 
on  the  voyage,  and  was  buried  at  sea. 

In  a  year  more  the  second  misgiving  was  confirmed.  Sir 
Thomas  Lundie  married  again.  He  brought  his  second  wife 
to  England  toward  the  close  of  eighteen  hundred  and  sixty- 
six. 

Time,  in  the  new  household,  promised  to  pass  as  quietly  as 
in  the  old.  Sir  Thomas  remembered  and  respected  the  trust 
which  his  first  wife  had  placed  in  Anne.  The  second  Lady 
Lundie,  wisely  guiding  her  conduct  in  this  matter  by  the  con- 
duct of  her  husband,  left  things  as  she  found  them  in  the  new 
house.  At  the  opening  of  eighteen  hundred  and  sixty-seven 
the  relations  between  Anne  and  Blanche  were  relations  of  sis- 
terly sympathy  and  sisterly  love.  The  prospect  in  the  future 
was  as  fair  as  a  prospect  could  be. 

At  this  date,  of  the  persons  concerned  in  the  tragedy  of 
twelve  years  since  at  the  Hampstead  villa,  three  were  dead  ; 
and  one  was  self-exiled  in  a  foreign  land.  There  now  remain- 
ed living  Anne  and  Blanche,  who  had  been  children  at  the 
time;  and  the  rising  solicitor  who  had  discovered  the  flaw  in 
the  Irish  marriage — once  Mr.  Delamayn  :  now  Lord  Holchester. 


40  MAN    AND    WIFB. 


THE  STORY. 


FIRST  SCENE.— THE  SUMMER-HOUSE. 
CHAPTER  THE  FIRST. 

THE    OWLS. 

In  the  spring  of  the  year  eighteen  hundred  and  sixty-eight 
there  lived,  in  a  certain  county  of  North  Britain,  two  venera- 
ble VN^hite  Owls. 

The  Owls  inhabited  a  decayed  and  deserted  summer-house. 
The  summer-house  stood  in  grounds  attached  to  a  country 
seat  in  Perthshire,  known  by  the  name  of  Wiudygates. 

The  situation  of  Wiudygates  had  been  skillfully  chosen  in 
that  part  of  the  county  where  the  fertile  lowlands  first  begin 
to  merge  into  the  mountain  region  beyond.  The  mansion- 
house  was  intelligently  laid  out,  and  luxuriously  furnished. 
The  stables  offered  a  model  for  ventilation  and  space ;  and  the 
gardens  and  grounds  were  fit  for  a  prince. 

Possessed  of  these  advantages  at  starting,  Wiudygates,  nev- 
ertheless, went  the  road  to  ruin  in  due  course  of  time.  The 
curse  of  litigation  fell  on  house  and  lands.  For  more  than  ten 
years  an  interminable  lawsuit  coiled  itself  closer  and  closer 
round  the  place,  sequestering  it  from  human  habitation,  and 
even  from  human  approach.  The  mansion  was  closed.  The 
garden  became  a  wilderness  of  weeds.  The  summer-house 
was  choked  up  by  creeping  plants  ;  and  the  appearance  of  the 
creepers  was  followed  by  the  appearance  of  the  birds  of  night. 

For  years  the  Owls  lived  undisturbed  on  the  property  which 
they  had  acquired  by  the  oldest  of  all  existing  rights — the 
right  of  taking.  Throughout  the  day  they  sat  peaceful  and 
solemn,  with  closed  eyes,  in  the  cool  darkness  shed  round  them 
by  the  ivy.  With  the  twilight  they  roused  themselves  softly 
to  the  business  of  life.  In  sage  and  silent  companionship  of 
two,  they  went  flying,  noiseless,  along  the  quiet  lanes  in  search 
of  a  meal.  At  one  time  they  would  beat  a  field  like  a  set- 
ter dog,  and  drop  down  in  an  instant  on  a  mouse  unaware  of 
them.  At  another  time — moving  spectral  over  the  black  sur- 
face of  the  water — they  would  try  the  lake  for  a  change,  anc 
catch  a  perch  as  they  had  caught  the  mouse.  Their  catholic 
digestions  were  equally  tolerant  of  a  rat  or  an  insect.     And 


MAN   AND   WIFE.  41 

there  were  moments,  proud  moments,  in  their  lives,  when  they 
were  clever  enough  to  snatch  a  small  bird  at  roost  off*  his 
perch.  On  those  occasions  the  sense  of  superiority  which  the 
large  bird  feels  everywhere  over  the  small,  warmed  their  cool 
blood,  and  set  them  screeching  cheerfully  in  the  stillness  of 
the  night. 

So,  fur  years,  the  Owls  slept  their  happy  sleep  by  day,  and 
found  their  comfortable  meal  when  darkness  fell.  They  had 
come,  with  the  creepers,  into  possession  of  the  summer-house. 
Consequently,  the  creepers  were  a  part  of  the  constitution  of 
the  summer-house.  And  consequently  the  Owls  were  the 
guardians  of  the  Constitution.  There  are  some  human  owls 
who  reason  as  they  did,  and  who  are,  in  this  respect — as  also 
in  respect  of  snatching  smaller  birds  oft"  their  roosts — wonder- 
fully like  them. 

The  constitution  of  the  summer-house  had  lasted  until  the 
spring  of  the  year  eighteen  hundred  and  sixty-eight,  when  the 
unhallowed  footsteps  of  innovation  passed  that  way ;  and  the 
venerable  privileges  of  the  Owls  were  assailed,  for  the  first 
time,  from  the  world  outside. 

Two  featherless  beings  appeared,  iminvited,  at  the  door  of 
the  summer-house,  surveyed  the  constitutional  creepers,  and 
said, "  These  must  come  down  " — looked  around  at  the  horrid 
light  of  noonday,  and  said,  "  That  must  come  in  " — went  away, 
thereupon,  and  were  heard,  in  the  distance,  agreeing  together, 
"To-morrow  it  shall  be  done." 

And  the  Owls  said,  "  Have  we  honored  the  summer-house 
by  occupying  it  all  these  years — and  is  the  horrid  light  of 
noonday  to  be  let  in  on  us  at  last  ?  My  lords  and  gentlemen, 
the  Constitution  is  destroyed  !" 

They  passed  a  resolution  to  that  eflTect,  as  is  the  manner  of 
their  kind.  And  then  they  shut  their  eyes  again,  and  felt  that 
they  had  done  their  duty. 

The  same  night,  on  their  way  to  the  fields,  they  observed 
with  dismay  a  light  in  one  of  the  windows  of  the  house. 
What  did  the  light  mean  ? 

It  meant,  in  the  first  place,  that  the  lawsuit  was  over  at 
last.  It  meant,  in  the  second  place,  that  the  owner  of  Windy- 
gates,  wanting  money,  had  decided  on  letting  the  property. 
It  meant,  in  the  third  place,  that  the  property  had  found  a  ten- 
ant, and  was  to  be  renovated  immediately  out-of-doors  and  in. 
The  Owls  shrieked  as  they  flapped  along  the  lanes  in  the  dark- 
ness.    And  that  night  they  struck  at  a  mouse — and  missed  him. 

The  next  morning,  the  Owls — fast  asleep  in  charge  of  the 
Constitution — were  roused  by  voices  of  featherless  beings  all 
round  them.  They  opened  their  eyes,  under  protest,  and  saw 
instruments  of  destruction   attacking  the   creepers.     Now  in 


42  MAN   AND   WIFE. 

one  direction,  and  now  in  another,  those  instruments  let  in  on 
the  summer-house  the  horrid  light  of  day.  But  the  Owls  were 
equal  to  the  occasion.  They  ruffled  their  feathers,  and  cried, 
"No  surrender!"  The  featherless  beings  plied  their  work 
cheerfully,  and  answered,  "  Reform  !"  The  creepers  were  torn 
down  this  way  and  that.  The  horrid  daylight  poured  in  bright- 
er and  brighter.  The  Owls  had  barely  time  to  pass  a  new  res- 
olution, namely, "  That  we  do  stand  by  the  Constitution,"  when 
a  ray  of  the  outer  sunlight  flashed  into  their  eyes,  and  sent 
them  flying  headlong  to  the  nearest  shade.  There  they  sat 
winking,  while  the  summer-house  w^as  cleared  of  the  rank 
growth  that  had  choked  it  up,  while  the  rotten  wood-work 
was  renewed,  while  all  the  murky  place  was  purified  with  air 
and  light.  And  when  the  world  saw  it,  and  said, "  Now  we 
shall  do  !"  the  Owls  shut  their  eyes  in  pious  remembrance  of 
the  darkness,  and  answered,  "My  lords  and  gentlemen,  the 
Constitution  is  destroyed !" 


CHAPTER  THE  SECOND. 

THE    GUESTS. 


Who  was  responsible  for  the  reform  of  the  summer-house  ? 
The  new  tenaut  at  Windygates  was  responsible. 
And  who  was  the  new  tenant? 
Come,  and  see. 

In  the  spring  of  eighteen  hundred  and  sixty-eight  the  sum- 
mer-house had  been  the  dismal  dwelling-place  of  a  pair  of 
owls.  In  the  autumn  of  the  same  year  the  summer-house  was 
the  lively  gathering-place  of  a  crowd  of  ladies  and  gentlemen, 
assembled  at  a  lawn  party — the  guests  of  the  tenant  who  had 
taken  Windygates. 

The  scene — at  the  opening  of  the  party — was  as  pleasant  to 
look  at  as  light  and  beauty  and  movement  could  make  it. 

Inside  the  summer-house  the  butterfly-brightness  of  the 
women  in  their  summer  dresses  shone  radiant  out  of  the  gloom 
shed  round  it  by  the  dreary  modern  clothing  of  the  men. 
Outside  the  summer-house,  seen  through  three  arched  open- 
ings, the  cool  green  prospect  of  a  lawn  led  away,  in  the  dis- 
tance, to  flower-beds  and  shrubberies,  and,  farther  still,  dis- 
closed, through  a  break  in  the  trees,  a  grand  stone  house,  which 
closed  the  view,  with  a  fountain  in  front  of  it  playing  in  the  sun. 

They  were  half  of  them  laughing,  they  were  all  of  them 
talking — the  comfortable  hum  of  the  voices  was  at  its  loudest; 
the  cheery  pealing  of  the  laughter  was  soaring  to  its  highest 


MAN  AND  WIFE.  48 

notes — when  one  dominant  voice,  rising  clear  and  shrill  above 
all  the  rest,  called  imperatively  for  silence.  The  moment  af- 
ter, a  young  lady  stepped  into  the  vacant  space  in  front  of  the 
summer-house,  and  surveyed  the  throng  of  guests  as  a  general 
in  command  surveys  a  regiment  under  review. 

She  was  young,  she  was  pretty,  she  was  plump,  she  was  fair. 
She  was  not  the  least  embarrassed  by  her  prominent  position. 
She  was  dressed  in  the  height  of  the  fashion.  A  hat,  like  a 
cheese-plate,  was  tilted  over  her  forehead.  A  balloon  of  light 
brown  hair  soared,  fully  inflated,  from  the  crown  of  her  head. 
A  cataract  of  beads  poured  over  her  bosom.  A  pair  of  cock- 
chafers in  enamel  (frightfully  like  the  living  originals)  hung  at 
her  ears.  Her  scanty  skirts  shone  splendid  with  the  blue  of 
heaven.  Her  ankles  twinkled  in  striped  stockings.  Her  shoes 
were  of  the  sort  called  "  Watteau."  And  her  heels  were  of 
the  height  at  w^hich  men  shudder,  and  ask  themselves  (in  con- 
templating an  otherwise  lovable  woman),  "  Can  this  charming 
person  straighten  her  knees  ?" 

The  young  lady  thus  presenting  herself  to  the  general  view 
was  Miss  Blanche  Lundie — once  the  little  rosy  Blanche  whom 
the  Prologue  has  introduced  to  the  reader.  Age,  at  the  pres- 
ent time,  eighteen.  Position,  excellent.  Money,  certain.  Tem- 
per, quick.  Disposition,  variable.  In  a  word,  a  child  of  the 
modern  time — with  the  merits  of  the  age  we  live  in,  and  the 
failings  of  the  age  we  live  in — and  a  substance  of  sincerity  and 
truth  and  feeling  underlying  it  all. 

"  Now,  then,  good  people,"  cried  Miss  Blanche,  "  silence,  if 
you  please !  We  are  going  to  choose  sides  at  croquet.  Busi- 
ness, business,  business  !" 

Upon  this,  a  second  lady  among  the  company  assumed  a  po- 
sition of  prominence,  and  answered  the  young  person  who  had 
just  spoken  with  a  look  of  mild  reproof,  and  in  a  tone  of  be- 
nevolent protest. 

The  second  lady  was  tall,  and  solid,  and  five-and-thirty.  She 
presented  to  the  general  observation  a  cruel  aquiline  nose,  an 
obstinate  straight  chin,  magnificent  dark  hair  and  eyes,  a  serene 
splendor  of  fawn-colored  apparel,  and  a  lazy  grace  of  move- 
ment which  was  attractive  at  first  sight,  but  inexpressibly  mo- 
notonous and  wearisome  on  a  longer  acquaintance.  This  was 
Lady  Lundie  the  Second,  now  the  widow  (after  four  months 
only  of  married  life)  of  Sir  Thomas  Lundie,  deceased.  In  other 
words,  the  step-mother  of  Blanche,  and  the  enviable  person  who 
had  taken  the  house  and  lands  of  Windygates. 

"My  dear,"  said  Lady  Lundie,  "words  have  their  meanings 
even  on  a  young  lady's  lips.     Do  you  call  croquet  '  business?'" 

"  You  don't  call  it  pleasure,  surely  ?"  said  a  gravely  ironical 
voice  in  the  background  of  the  summer-house. 


44  MAN    AND    WIFE. 

The  ranks  of  the  visitors  parted  before  the  last  speaker,  and 
disclosed  to  view,  in  the  midst  of  that  modern  assembly,  a  gen- 
tleman of  the  by-gone  time. 

The  manner  of  this  gentleman  was  distingnished  by  a  pliant 
grace  and  conrtesy  unknown  to  thepi'esent  generation.  The 
attire  of  this  gentleman  was  composed  of  a  many-folded  white 
cravat,  a  close-buttoned  blue  dress-coat,  and  nankeen  trowsers 
with  gaiters  to  m.atcli,  ridiculous  to  the  present  generation. 
The  talk  of  this  gentleman  ran  in  an  easy  flow — revealing  an 
independent  habit  of  mind,  and  exhibiting  a  carefully-polished 
capacity  for  satirical  retort — dreaded  and  disliked  by  the  pres- 
ent generation.  Personally,  he  was  little  and  wiry  and  slim — 
with  a  bright  white  head,  and  sparkling  black  eyes,  and  a  wry 
twist  of  humor  curling  shai"ply  at  the  corners  of  his  lips.  At 
bis  lower  extremities,  he  exhibited  the  defoiTuity  which  is  pop- 
ularly known  as  "  a  club-foot."  But  he  carried  his  lameness,  as 
he  carried  his  years,  gayly.  He  was  socially  celebrated  for  his 
ivory  cane,  with  a  snuff-box  artfully  let  into  the  knob  at  the 
top — and  he  vv^as  socially  dreaded  for  a  hatred  of  modern  insti- 
tutions, which  expressed  itself  in  season  and  out  of  season,  and 
which  always  showed  the  same  fatal  knack  of  hitting  smaitly 
on  the  weakest  phace.  Such  was  Sir  Patrick  Lundie;  brother 
of  the  late  baronet.  Sir  Thomas  •  and  inheritor,  at  Sir  Thomas's 
death,  of  the  title  and  estates. 

Miss  Blanche — taking  no  notice  of  her  step-mother's  reproof, 
or  of  her  uncle's  commentary  on  it  —  pointed  to  a  table  on 
which  croquet  mallets  and  balls  were  laid  ready,  and  recalled 
the  attention  of  the  company  to  the  matter  in  hand. 

"I  head  one  side,  ladies  and  gentlemen,"  she  resumed; 
"  and  Lady  Lundie  heads  the  other.  We  choose  our  playei's 
turn  and  turn  about.  Mamma  has  the  advantage  of  me  in 
years.     So  mamma  chooses  fii-st." 

With  a  look  at  her  step-daughter — which,  being  interpret- 
ed, meant,  "I  would  send  you  back  to  the  nursery,  miss,  if 
I  could!" — -Lady  Lundie  turned,  and  ran  her  eye  over  her 
guests.  She  had  evidently  made  up  her  mind,  beforehand, 
what  player  to  pick  out  first. 

"  I  choose  Miss  Silvester,"  she  said — with  a  special  emphasis 
laid  on  the  name. 

At  that  there  was  another  parting  among  the  crowd.  To 
us  (who  know  her),  it  v,'as  Anne  who  now  appeared.  Stran- 
gers, who  saw  her  for  the  first  time,  saw  a  lady  in  the  prime 
of  her  life — a  lady  plainly  dressed  in  unornaraented  white— 
who  advanced  slowly,  and  confronted  the  mistress  of  the 
bouse. 

A  certain  proportion— and  not  a  small  one — of  the  men  at 
the  lawn-party  had  been  brought  there  by  friends  who  were 


HAN   AND  WIFS.  45 

privileged  to  introduce  them.  The  moment  she  appeared  ev- 
ery one  of  those  men  suddenly  became  interested  in  the  lady 
who  had  been  chosen  first, 

"That's  a  very  charming  woman,"  whispered  one  of  the 
strangers  at  the  house  to  one  of  the  friends  of  the  house. 
"  Who  is  she  ?" 

The  friend  whispered  back : 

"Miss  Lundie's  governess — that's  all." 

The  moment  during  which  the  question  was  put  and  answer- 
ed was  also  the  moment  which  brought  Lady  Lundie  and  Miss 
Silvester  face  to  face,  in  the  presence  of  the  company. 

The  stranger  at  the  house  looked  at  the  two  women,  and 
whispered  again. 

"  Something  wrong  between  the  lady  and  the  governess," 
he  said. 

The  friend  looked  also,  and  answered,  in  one  emphatic  word  : 

"  Evidently !" 

There  are  certain  women  whose  influence  over  men  is  an  un- 
fathomable mystery  to  observers  of  their  own  sex.  The  gov- 
erness was  one  of  those  women.  She  had  inherited  the  charm, 
but  not  the  beauty,  of  her  unhappy  mother.  Judge  her  by 
the  standard  set  up  in  the  illustrated  gift-books  and  the  print- 
shop  windows — and  the  sentence  must  have  inevitably  follow- 
ed,* "She  has  not  a  single  good  feature  in  her  face."  There 
was  nothing  individually  remarkable  about  Miss  Silvester, 
seen  in  a  state  of  repose.  She  was  of  the  average  height.  She 
was  as  well  made  as  most  women.  In  hair  and  complexion, 
she  was  neither  light  nor  dark,  but  provokingly  neutral,  just 
between  the  two.  Worse  even  than  this,  there  were  positive 
defects  in  her  face,  which  it  was  impossible  to  deny,  A  nerv- 
ous contraction  at  one  corner  of  her  mouth  drew  up  the  lips 
out  of  the  symmetrically  right  line,  when  they  moved.  A 
nervous  uncertainty  in  the  eye  on  the  same  side  narrowly  es- 
caped presenting  the  deformity  of  a  "  cast."  And  yet,  with 
these  indisputable  drawbacks,  here  was  one  of  those  women — 
the  formidable  few — who  have  the  hearts  of  men  and  the  peace 
of  families  at  their  mercy.  She  moved — and  there  was  some 
subtle  charm,  sir,  in  the  movement,  that  made  you  look  back, 
'and  suspend  your  conversation  with  your  friend,  and  watch 
her  silently  while  she  walked.  She  sat  by  you  and  talked  to 
you — and  behold,  a  sensitive  something  passed  into  that  little 
twist  at  the  corner  of  the  mouth,  and  into  that  nervous  uncer- 
tainty in  the  soft  gray  eye,  which  turned  defect  into  beauty — 
..^which  enchained  your  senses — which  made  your  nerves  thrill 
,if  she  touched  you  by  accident,  and  set  your  heart  beating  if 
you  looked  at  the  same  book  with  her,  and  felt  her  breath  on 
your  face.     All  this,  let  it  be  well  understood,  only  happened 


46  MAN    AND    WIFE. 

if  you  were  a  man.  If  you  saw  her  with  the  eyes  of  a  wom- 
an, the  results  weie  of  quite  another  kind.  In  that  case,  you 
merely  turned  to  your  nearest  female  friend,  and  said,  with 
unaffected  pity  for  the  other  sex,  "  What  can  the  men  see  in 
her !" 

The  eyes  of  the  lady  of  the  house  and  the  eyes  of  the  gov- 
erness met,  with  marked  distrust  on  eitlier  side.  Few  people 
could  have  failed  to  see,  what  the  stranger  and  the  friend  had 
noticed  alike — that  there  was  something  smouldering  under 
the  surface  here.     Miss  Silvester  spoke  first. 

"Thank  you,  Lady  Lundie,"  she  said,  "I  would  rather  not 
l^lay." 

Lady  Lundie  assumed  an  extreme  surprise  which  passed  the 
limits  of  good-breeding. 

"  Oh,  indeed  !"  she  rejoined,  sharply.  "  Considering  that  we 
are  all  here  for  the  purpose  of  playing,  that  seems  rather  re- 
markable.    Is  any  thing  wrong,  Miss  Silvester?" 

A  flush  appeared  on  the  delicate  paleness  of  Miss  Silvester's 
face.  But  she  did  her  duty  as  a  v/oman  and  a  governess. 
She  submitted,  and  so  preserved  appearances,  for  that  time. 

"Nothing  is  the  matter,"  she  answered.  "I  am  not  very 
well  this  morning.     But  I  will  play  if  you  wish  it." 

"I  do  wish  it,"  ansv/ered  Lady  Lundie. 

Miss  Silvester  turned  aside  towai'd  one  of  the  entrances  into 
the  summer-house.  She  waited  for  events,  looking  out  over 
the  lawn,  with  a  visible  inner  disturbance,  marked  over  the 
bosom  by  the  rise  and  fall  of  iier  white  dress. 

It  Avas  Blanche's  turn  to  select  the  next  player. 

In  some  preliminary  uncertainty  as  to  her  choice,  she  looked 
about  among  the  guests,  and  caught  the  eye  of  a  gen^eman  in 
the  front  ranks.  He  stood  side  by  side  with  Sir  Patrick — a 
striking  representative  of  the  school  that  is  among  us — as  Sir 
Patrick  was  a  striking  representative  of  the  school  that  has 
passed  away. 

The    modern    gentleman    was    young   and    florid,   tall   and 
strong.     The  parting  of  his  curly  Saxon  locks  began  in  the 
centre  of  his  forehead,  traveled  over  the  top  of  his  head,  and 
ended,  rigidly  central,  at  the  ruddy  nape  of  his  neck.     His  fea- 
tures were  as  perfectly  regular  and  as  perfectly  unintelligent 
as  human  features  can  be.     His  expression  preserved  an  im-  i 
movable  composure  wonderful  to  behold.     The  muscles  of  his  \ 
brawny  arms  showed  through  the  sleeves  of  his  light  summer  ' 
coat.     He  was  deep  in  the  chest,  thin  in  the  flanks,  firm  on  the  ' 
legs — in  two  words,  a  magnificent  human  animal,  wrought  up 
to  the   highest  pitch   of  ]ihysical   development,  from  head  to  " 
foot.     This   was  Mr.  GeoftVey   Delamayn  —  commonly  called' 
"the  honorable;"  and  meriting  that  distinction  in  more  ways  | 


MAN    AND    WIFE.  47 

tlinn  one.  He  was  honorable,  in  the  first  place,  as  being  the 
^on  (second  son)  of  that  once-rising  solicitor,  who  was  now 
Lord  Holchester.  He  was  honorable,  in  the  second  place,  as 
having  won  the  highest  popular  distinction  which  the  educa- 
tional system  of  modern  England  can  bestow — he  had  pulled 
the  stroke-oar  in  a  University  boat-race.  Add  to  this,  that 
nobody  had  ever  seen  him  read  any  thing  but  a  newspaper, 
and  that  nobody  had  ever  known  him  to  be  backward  in  set- 
tling a  bet — and  the  picture  of  this  distinguished  young  En- 
glishman will  be,  for  the  present,  complete. 

Blanche's  eye  naturally  rested  on  him.  Blanche's  voice  nat- 
urally picked  him  out  as  the  first  player  on  her  side. 

"  I  choose  Mr.  Delamayn,"  she  said. 

As  the  name  passed  her  lips  tlie  flush  on  Miss  Silvester's 
face  died  away,  and  a  deadly  paleness  took  its  place.  She 
made  a  movement  to  leave  the  summer-house — checked  her- 
self abruptly — and  laid  one  hand  on  the  back  of  a  rustic  seat 
at  her  side.  A  gentleman  behind  hei',  looking  at  the  hand, 
saw  it  clench  itself  so  suddenly  and  so  fiercely  that  the  glove 
on  it  split.  The  gentleman  made  a  mental  memorandum,  and 
registered  Miss  Silvester  in  his  private  books  as  "the  devil's 
own  temper." 

Meanwhile  Mr.  Delamayn,  by  a  strange  coincidence,  took 
exactly  the  same  course  which  Miss  Silvester  had  taken  i>efore 
him.     He,  too,  attempted  to  withdraw  from  the  coming  game, 

"Thanks  very  much,"  he  said.  "Could  you  additionally 
honor  me  by  choosing  somebody  else?     It's  not  in  my  line." 

Fifty  years  ago  such  an  answer  as  this,  addressed  to  a  lady, 
would  have  been  considered  inexcusably  impertinent.  The 
social  code  of  the  present  time  hailed  it  as  something  frankly 
amusing.     The  company  laughed.     Blanche  lost  her  temper. 

"Can't  we  interest  you  in  any  thing  but  severe  muscular 
exertion,  Mr.  Delamayn  ?"  she  asked,  sharply.  "Must  yon  al- 
ways be  pulling  in  a  boat-race,  or  flying  over  a  high  jump? 
If  you  had  a  mind,  you  would  want  to  relax  it.  You  have  got 
muscles  instead.     Why  not  relax  themf" 

The  shafts  of  Miss  Lundie's  bitter  wit  glided  ofl'  Mr.  Geof- 
frey Delamayn  like  v/ater  ofi"a  duck's  back. 

"Just  as  you  please,"  he  said,  with  stolid  good-humor. 
"Don't  be  ofiended.  I  came  here  with  ladies  —  and  they 
wouldn't  let  me  smoke.  I  miss  my  smoke.  I  thought  I'd 
slip  away  a  bit  and  have  it.     All  right !     I'll  play." 

"Oh!  smoke  by  all  means !"  retorted  Blanche.  "I  shall 
choose  somebody  else.     I  won't  have  you  !" 

The  honorable  young  gentleman  looked  unafiectedly  relieved. 
The  petulant  young  lady  turned  her  back  on  him,  and  surveyed 
the  guests  at  the  other  extremity  of  the  summer-house. 


48  MAN    AND    ^VIFK. 

"  Who  shall  I  choose  ?"  she  said  to  lierself. 

A  dark  young  man — with  a  face  burned  gypsy-brown  by  the 
sun ;  with  sometliing  in  his  look  and  manner  suggestive  of  a 
roving  life,  and  perhaps  of  a  familiar  acquaintance  with  the 
sea — advanced  shyly,  and  said,  in  a  whisper: 

"  Choose  me !" 

Blanche's  face  broke  prettily  into  a  charming  smile.  Judg- 
ing from  appearances,  the  dark  young  man  had  a  place  in  her 
estimation  peculiarly  his  own. 

"  You  !"  she  said,  coquettish! y.  "  You  are  g.oing  to  leave  us 
in  an  hour's  time  !" 

He  ventured  a  stej)  nearer.  "I  am  coming  back,"  he  plead- 
ed, "  tiie  day  after  to-morrow." 

"  You  play  very  badly  !" 

"  I  might  improve — if  you  would  teach  me." 

''•Might  you?  Then  I  loill  teach  you  !"  She  turned,  bright 
and  rosy,  to  her  ste[)-mother.  "I  choose  Mr.  Arnold  Brink- 
Avorth,"  slie  said. 

Here,  again,  there  appeared  to  be  something  in  a  name  un- 
known to  celebrity,  which  nevertheless  produced  its  effect — 
not,  this  time,  on  Miss  Silvester,  but  on  Sir  Patrick.  He  looked 
at  Mr.  Brinkworth  \\\\\\  a  sudden  interest  and  curiosity.  If 
the  lady  of  the  house  had  not  claimed  his  attention  at  the  mo- 
ment he  Avould  evidently  have  spoken  to  the  dark  young  man. 

But  it  was  Lady  Lundie's  turn  to  clioose  a  second  player  on 
her  side.  Her  bi'other-in-law  was  a  person  of  some  impor- 
tance ;  and  she  had  her  own  motives  for  ingratiating  herself 
with  the  head  of  tlie  family.  She  surprised  the  whole  com- 
pany by  choosing  Sir  Patrick. 

"Mamma !"  cried  Blanche.  "What  can  you  be  thinking  of? 
Sir  Patrick  won't  play.  Croquet  wasn't  discovered  in  his 
time." 

Sir  Patrick  never  allowed  "  his  time  "  to  be  made  the  subject 
of  disparaging  remarks  by  the  younger  generation  without 
paying  the  younger  generation  back  in  its  own  coin. 

"In  my  time,  ray  dear,"  he  said  to  his  niece,  "  people  were 
expected  to  bring  some  agi'eeable  quality  with  them  to  social 
meetings  of  this  sort.  In  your  time  you  have  dispensed  with 
all  that.  Here,"  remarked  the  old  gentleman,  taking  up  a 
croquet  mallet  from  the  table  near  him.,  "is  one  of  the  qualifi- 
cations for  success  in  modern  society.  And  here,"  he  added, 
takiiici^  up  a  ball,  "  is  anothei'.  Very  good.  Live  and  learn. 
I'll  play  !  I'll  play  !"  . 

Lady  Lundie  (boi'n  impervious  to  all  sense  of  irony)  smiled 
graciously. 

"I  knew  Sir  Patrick  would  play,"  she  said,  "to  please  me."''- 

Sir  Patrick  bowed  with  satirical  politeness. 


MAN   AND   WIFK.  40 

"Lady  Lundie,"  he  answered, "  you  read  me  like  a  book." 
To  the  astonishment  of  all  persons  present  under  forty  he  em- 
phasized those  words  by  laying  his  hand  on  his  heart,  and 
quoting  poetry.  "  I  may  say  with  Dryden,"  added  the  gallant 
old  gentleman : 

"  'Old  as  I  am,  for  ladies'  love  unfit, 
The  power  of  beauty  I  remember  yet.' " 

Lady  Lundie  looked  unaffectedly  shocked.  Mr.  Delamayn 
went  a  step  further.  He  interfered  on  the  spot — with  the  air 
of  a  man  who  feels  himself  imperatively  called  upon  to  perform 
a  public  duty. 

'*  Dryden  never  said  that,"  he  remarked,  "  I'll  answer  for  it." 

Sir  Patrick  wheeled  round  with  the  help  of  his  ivory  cane, 
and  looked  Mr.  Delamayn  hard  in  the  face. 

"  Do  you  know  Dryden,  sir,  better  than  I  do  ?"  he  asked. 

The  Honorable  Geoffrey  answered,  modestly,  "  I  should  say 
I  did.  I  have  rowed  three  races  with  him,  and  we  trained  to- 
gether." 

Sir  Patrick  looked  round  him  with  a  sour  smile  of  triumph. 

"  Then  let  me  tell  you,  sir,"  he  said,  "  that  you  trained  with 
a  man  who  died  nearly  two  hundred  years  ago." 

Mr.  Delamayn  appealed,  in  genuine  bewilderment,  to  the 
company  generally : 

"  What  does  this  old  gentleman  mean  ?"  he  asked.  "  I  am 
speaking  of  Tom  Dryden,  of  Corpus.  Every  body  in  the  Uni- 
versity knows  A^■m." 

"  I  am  speaking,"  echoed  Sir  Patrick,  "  of  John  Dryden  the 
Poet.  Apparently,  every  body  in  the  University  does  not 
know  him .'" 

Mr.  Delamayn  answered,  with  a  cordial  earnestness  very 
pleasant  to  see  : 

"  Give  you  my  word  of  honor,  I  never  heard  of  him  before  in 
my  life  !  Don't  be  angry,  sir.  Z'm  not  offended  with  yow." 
He  smiled,  and  took  out  his  brier-wood  pipe.  "  Got  a  light  ?" 
.  he  asked,  in  the  friendliest  possible  manner. 

Sir  Patrick  answered,  Avith  a  total  absence  of  cordiality : 

"  I  don't  smoke,  sir." 

Mr.  Delamayn  looked  at  him,  without  taking  the  slightest 
offense : 

"  You  don't  smoke  !"  he  repeated.  "  I  wonder  how  you  get 
through  your  spare  time  ?" 

Sir  Patrick  closed  the  conversation : 

"  Sir,"  he  said,  with  a  low  bow, "  you  riiay  wonder." 

While  this  little  skirmish  was  proceeding  Lady  Lundie  and 
her  step-daughter  had  organized  the  game ;  and  the  company, 
players  and  spectators,  were  beginning  to  move  toward  the 

4 


50  MAN   AND  WIPE. 

lawn.  Sir  Patrick  stopped  his  niece  on  her  way  out,  with  the 
dark  young  man  in  close  attendance  on  her. 

"  Leave  Mr.  Brinkworth  with  me,"  he  said.  "  I  want  to 
speak  to  him." 

Blanche  issued  her  orders  immediately.  Mr.  Brinkworth 
was  sentenced  to  stay  with  Sir  Patrick  until  she  wanted  him 
for  the  game.     Mr.  Brinkworth  wondered,  and  obeyed. 

During  the  exercise  of  this  act  of  authority  a  circumstance 
occurred  at  the  other  end  of  the  summer-house.  Taking  ad- 
vantage of  the  confusion  caused  by  the  general  movement  to 
the  lawn.  Miss  Silvester  suddenly  placed  herself  close  to  Mr. 
Delamayn. 

"  In  ten  minutes,"  she  whispered,  "  the  summer-house  will  be 
empty.     Meet  me  here." 

The  Honorable  Geoffrey  started,  and  looked  furtively  at  the 
visitors  about  him. 

"  Do  you  think  it's  safe  ?"  he  whispered  back. 

The  governess's  sensitive  lips  trembled,  with  fear  or  with 
anger,  it  was  hard  to  say  which. 

"  I  insist  on  it !"  she  answered,  and  left  him. 

Mr.  Delamayn  knitted  his  handsome  eyebrows  as  he  looked 
after  her,  and  then  left  the  summer-house  in  his  turn.  The 
rose-garden  at  the  back  of  the  building  was  solitary  for  the 
moment.  He  took  out  his  pipe  and  hid  himself  among  the 
roses.  The  smoke  came  from  his  mouth  in  hot  and  hasty  puffs. 
He  was  usually  the  gentlest  of  masters — to  his  pipe.  When 
he  hurried  that  confidential  servant,  it  was  a  sure  sign  of  dis- 
turbance in  the  inner  man. 


CHAPTER  THE  THIRD. 

THE  DISCOVERIES. 


But  two  persons  were  now  left  in  the  summer-house — Arnold 
Brinkworth  and  Sir  Patrick  Lundie. 

"Mr.  Brinkworth,"  said  the  old  gentleman,  "I  have  had  no 
opportunity  of  speaking  to  you  before  this  ;  and  (as  I  hear  that 
you  are  to  leave  us  to-day)  I  may  find  no  opportunity  at  a 
later  time.  I  want  to  introduce  myself  Your  father  was  one 
of  my  dearest  friends — let  me  make  a  friend  of  your  father's 
son." 

He  held  out  his  hand  and  mentioned  his  name.  Arnold 
recognized  it  directly.  " Oh,  Sir  Patrick!"  he  said,  warmly, 
"  if  my  poor  father  had  only  taken  your  advice — " 

"  He  would  have  thouerht  twice  before  he  gambled  away  his 


MAN   AND   WIFE.  51 

fortune  on  the  turf;  and  he  might  have  been  alive  here  among 
us,  instead  of  dying  an  exile  in  a  foreign  land,"  said  Sir  Patrick, 
finishing  the  sentence  which  the  other  had  begun.  "  No  more 
of  that !  Let's  talk  of  something  else.  Lady  Lundie  wrote  to 
me  about  you  the  other  day.  She  told  me  your  aunt  was  dead, 
and  had  left  you  heir  to  her  property  in  Scotland.  Is  that 
true  ? — It  is  ? — I  congratulate  you  with  all  my  heart.  Why 
are  you  visiting  here,  instead  of  looking  after  your  house  and 
lands  ?  Oh  !  it's  only  three-and-twenty  miles  from  this ;  and 
you're  going  to  look  after  it  to-day,  by  the  next  train  ?  Quite 
right.  And — what  ?  what  ? — coming  back  again  the  day  after 
to-morrow  ?  Why  should  you  come  back '?  Some  special 
attraction  here,  I  suppose  ?  I  hope  it's  the  right  sort  of  at- 
traction. You're  very  young — you're  exposed  to  all  sorts  of 
temptations.  Have  you  got  a  solid  foundation  of  good  sense 
at  the  bottom  of  you  ?  It  is  not  inherited  from  your  poor  father, 
if  you  have.  You  must  have  been  a  mere  boy  when  he  ruined 
his  children's  prospects.  How  have  you  lived  from  that  time 
to  this?  What  were  you  doing  when  your  aunt's  will  made 
an  idle  man  of  you  for  life  ?" 

The  question  Avas  a  searching  one.  Arnold  answered  it, 
without  the  slightest  hesitation  ;  speaking  with  an  unaflected 
modesty  and  simplicity  which  at  once  won  Sir  Patrick's  heart. 

"  I  was  a  boy  at  Eton,  sir,"  he  said,  "  when  my  father's  losses 
ruined  him.  I  had  to  leave  school,  and  get  my  own  living; 
and  I  have  got  it,  in  a  roughish  way,  from  that  time  to  this. 
In  plain  English,  I  have  followed  the  sea — in  the  merchant- 
service." 

"  In  plainer  English  still,  you  met  adversity  like  a  brave  lad, 
and  you  have  fairly  earned  the  good  luck  that  has  fallen  to 
you,"  rejoined  Sir  Patrick.  "Give  me  your  hand  —  I  have 
taken  a  liking  to  you.  You're  not  like  the  other  young  fellows 
of  the  present  time.  I  shall  call  you  'Arnold.'  You  mus'n't 
return  the  compliment,  and  call  me  'Patrick,'  mind — I'm  too 
old  to  be  treated  in  that  way.  Well,  and  how  do  you  get  on 
here  ?  What  sort  of  a  woman  is  my  sister-in-law  ?  and  what 
sort  of  a  house  is  this  ?" 

Arnold  burst  out  laughing. 

"Those  are  extraordinary  questions  for  you  to  put  to  me," 
be  said.     "  You  talk,  sir,  as  if  you  were  a  stranger  here." 

Sir  Patrick  touched  a  spring  in  the  knob  of  his  ivory  cane. 
A  little  gold  lid  flew  up,  and  disclosed  the  snuflf-box  hidden 
inside.  He  took  a  pinch,  and  chuckled  satirically  over  some 
passing  thought,  which  he  did  not  think  it  necessary  to  com- 
municate to  his  young  friend. 

"  I  talk  as  if  I  was  a  stranger  here,  do  I  ?"  he  resumed. 
"  That's  exactly  what  I  am.     Lady  Lundie  and  I  correspond 


62  MAN   AND   WIFE. 

on  excellent  terras ;  but  we  run  in  different  grooves,  and  we 
see  each  other  as  seldom  as  possible.  My  story,"  continued 
the  pleasant  old  man,  with  a  charming  frankness  which  leveled 
all  differences  of  age  and  rank  between  Arnold  and  himself, 
"  is  not  entirely  unlike  yours ;  though  I  am  old  enough  to  be 
your  grandfather.  I  was  getting  my  living,  in  my  way  (as 
a  crusty  old  Scotch  lawyer),  when  my  brother  married  again. 
His  death,  without  leaving  a  son  by  either  of  his  wives,  gave 
me  a  lift  in  the  world,  like  you.  Here  I  am  (to  my  own  sincere 
regret)  the  present  baronet.  Yes,  to  my  sincere  regret !  All 
sorts  of  responsibilities  which  I  never  bargained  for  are  thrust 
on  my  shoulders.  I  am  the  head  of  the  family ;  I  am  my 
niece's  guardian  ;  I  am  compelled  to  appear  at  this  lawn-party 
— and  (between  ourselves)  I  am  as  completely  out  of  my  ele- 
ment as  a  man  can  be.  Not  a  single  familiar  face  meets  me 
among  all  these  fine  people.     Do  you  know  any  body  here  ?" 

"  I  have  one  friend  at  Windygates,"  said  Arnold.  "  He  came 
here  this  morning,  like  you.     Geoffrey  Delamayn." 

As  he  made  the  reply,  Miss  Silvester  appeared  at  the  en- 
trance to  the  summer-house.  A  shadow  of  annoyance  passed 
over  her  face  when  she  saw  that  the  place  was  occupied.  She 
vanished,  unnoticed,  and  glided  back  to  the  game. 

Sir  Patrick  looked  at  the  son  of  his  old  friend,  with  every 
appearance  of  being  disappointed  in  the  young  man  for  the 
first  time. 

"  Your  choice  of  a  friend  rather  surprises  me,"  he  said. 

Arnold  artlessly  accepted  the  words  as  an  appeal  to  him  for 
information. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  sir — there's  nothing  surprising  in  it,'^ 
he  returned.  "  We  were  school-fellows  at  Eton,  in  the  old 
times.  And  I  have  met  Geoffrey  since,  when  he  was  yacht- 
ing, ind  when  I  was  with  my  ship.  Geoffrey  saved  my  life. 
Sir  Patrick,"  he  added,  his  voice  rising,  and  his  eyes  brighten- 
ing with  honest  admiration  of  his  friend.  "  But  for  him,  I 
should  have  been  drowned  in  a  boat  a(!cident.  Isn't  that  a 
good  reason  for  his  being  a  friend  of  mine?" 

"  It  depends  entirely  on  the  value  you  set  on  your  life,"  said 
Sir  Patrick. 

"  The  value  I  set  on  my  life  ?"  repeated  Arnold.  "  I  set  a 
high  value  on  it,  of  course  !" 

"  In  that  case,  Mr.  Delamayn  has  laid  you  under  an  obliga- 
tion." 

"  Which  I  can  never  repay !" 

"  Which  you  will  repay  one  of  these  days,  with  interest — if 
I  know  any  thing  of  human  nature,"  answered  Sir  Patrick. 

He  said  the  words  with  the  emphasis  of  strong  conviction. 
They  were  barely  spoken  when  Mr.  Delamayn  appeared  (ex- 


MAN   AJfD   WIFE.  53 

actly  as  Miss  Silvester  had  appeared)  at  the  entrance  to  the 
summer-house.  He,  too,  vanished,  unnoticed — -like  Miss  Sil- 
vester a2:n.in.  But  liere  the  parallel  stopped.  The  Honorable 
Geoffrey's  expression,  on  discovering  the  place  to  be  occupied, 
was  unmistakably,  an  expression  of  relief 

Arnold  drew  the  I'ight  inference,  this  time,  from  Sir  Pat- 
rick's lanouage  and  Sir  Patrick's  tones.  He  eagerly  took  up 
the  defense  of  his  friend. 

"  You  said  that  rather  bitterly,  sir,"  he  remarked.  "  What 
has  Geoffrey  done  to  offend  you  ?" 

"He  presumes  to  exist — that's  what  he  has  done,"  retorted 
Sir  Patrick.  "  Don't  stare  !  I  am  speaking  generally.  Your 
friend  is  the  model  young  Briton  of  the  present  time.  I  don't 
like  the  model  young  Briton.  I  don't  see  the  sense  of  crow- 
ino-  over  him  as  a  superb  national  production,  because  he  is 
biS  and  strong,  and  drinks  beer  with  impunity,  and  takes  a 
coTd  shower-bath  all  the  year  round.  There  is  far  too  much 
o-lorification  in  England,  just  now,  of  the  mere  physical  quali- 
ties which  an  Englishman  shares  with  the  savage  and  the 
brute.  And  the  ill  results  are  beginning  to  show  themselves 
already  !  We  are  readier  than  we  ever  v/ere  to  practice  all 
that  is  rough  in  our  national  customs,  and  to  excuse  all  that  is 
violent  and  brutish  in  our  national  acts.  Read  the  popular 
books— attend  the  popular  amusements;  and  you  will  find  at 
the  bottom  of  them  all  a  lessening  regard  for  the  gentler 
graces  of  civilized  life,  and  a  growing  admiration  for  the  vir- 
tues of  the  aboriginal  Britons  !" 

Arnold  listened  in  blank  amazement.  He  had  been  the  in- 
nocent means  of  relieving  Sir  Patrick's  mind  of  an  accumula- 
tion of  social  protest,  unprovided  with  an  issue  for  some  time 
past.  "How  hot  you  are  over  it,  sir!"  he  exclaimed,  in  irre- 
pressible astonishment. 

Sir  Patrick  instantly  recovered  himself  The  genuine  won- 
der expressed  in  the  young  man's  face  was  irresistible. 

"Almost  as  hot,"  he  said,  "as  if  I  wt-s  cheering  at  a  boat- 
race,  or  wrangling  over  a  betting-book — eh?  Ah,  we  were  so 
easily  heated  when  I  was  a  young  man  !  Let's  change  the 
subject.  I  know  nothing  to  the  prejudice  of  your  frien^d,  Mr. 
Delamayn.  It's  the  cant  of  the  day,"  cried  Sir  Patrick,  re- 
lapsing again,  "to  take  these  physically-wholesome  men  for 
granted  as  being  morally-wholesome  men  into  the  bargain. 
Time  will  show  Avhether  the  cant  of  the  day  is  right.  So  you 
are  actually  coming  back  to  Lady  Lundie's  after  a  mere  Qy'mg 
visit  to  your  own  property  ?  I  repeat,  that  it  is  a  most  ex'- 
traordinary  proceeding  on  the  part  of  a  landed  gentleman 
like  you.     What's  the  attraction  here— eh  ?" 

Before  Arnold  could  reply  Blanche  called  to  him  from  the 


54  MAN  AND   WIPE. 

lawn.  His  color  rose,  and  he  turned  eagerly  to  go  out.  Sh 
Patrick  nodded  his  head  with  the  air  of  a  man  who  had  beeu 
answered  to  his  own  entire  satisfaction.  "  Oh !"  he  said, 
'■'■thafs  the  attraction,  is  it?" 

Arnold's  life  at  sea  had  left  him  singularly  ignorant  of  the 
ways  of  the  world  on  shore.  Instead  of  taking  the  joke,  he 
looked  confused.  A  deeper  tinge  of  color  reddened  his  dark 
cheeks.     "  I  didn't  say  so,"  he  answered,  a  little  irritably. 

Sir  Patrick  lifted  two  of  his  white,  wrinkled  old  fingers,  and 
good-humoredly  patted  the  young  sailor  on  the  cheek. 

"Yes  you  did,"  he  said.     "  In  red  letters." 

The  little  gold  lid  in  the  knob  of  the  ivory  cane  flew  up,  and 
the  old  gentleman  rewarded  himself  for  that  neat  retort  with 
a  pinch  of  snuflT,  At  the  same  moment  Blanche  made  her  ap- 
pearance on  the  scene. 

"Mr.  Brinkworth,"  she  said,  "  I  shall  want  you  directly. 
Uncle,  it's  your  turn  to  play." 

"  Bless  my  soul !"  cried  Sir  Patrick,  "  I  forgot  the  game." 
He  looked  about  him,  and  saw  his  mallet  and  ball  left  waiting 
on  the  table.  "  Where  are  the  modern  substitutes  for  conver- 
sation ?  Oh,  here  they  are  !"  He  bowled  the  ball  out  before 
him  on  to  the  lawn,  and  tucked  the  mallet,  as  if  it  was  an  um- 
brella, under  his  arm.  "  Who  was  the  first  mistaken  person," 
he  said  to  himself,  as  he  briskly  ht)bbled  out,  "  who  discovered 
that  human  life  was  a  serious  thing  ?  Here  am  I,  with  one 
foot  in  the  grave ;  and  the  most  serious  question  before  me  at 
the  present  moment  is.  Shall  I  get  through  the  Hoops  ?" 

Arnold  and  Blanche  were  left  together. 

Among  the  personal  privileges  which  Nature  has  accord efl 
to  women,  there  are  surely  none  more  enviable  than  their  priv- 
ilege of  always  looking  their  best  when  they  look  at  the  man 
they  love.  When  Blanche's  eyes  turned  on  Arnold,  after  her 
uncle  had  gone  out,  not  even  the  hideous  fashionable  disfigure- 
ments of  the  inflated  "  chignon  "  and  the  tilted  hat  could  de- 
stroy the  triple  charm  of  youth,  beauty,  and  tenderness  beam- 
ing in  her  face.  Arnold  looked  at  her — and  remembered,  as 
he  had  never  remembered  yet,  that  he  was  going  by  the  next 
train,  and  that  he  was  leaving  her  in  the  society  of  more  than 
one  admiring  man  of  his  own  age.  The  expei-ience  of  a  whole 
fortnight  passed  under  the  same  I'oof  with  her  had  proved 
Blanche  to  be  the  most  charming  girl  in  existence.  It  was 
possible  that  she  might  not  be  mortally  oflfended  with  him  if 
he  told  her  so.  He  determined  that  he  loould  tell  her  so  at 
that  auspicious  moment. 

But  who  shall  presume  to  measure  the  abyss  that  lies  be- 
tween the  Intention  and  the  Execution  ?  Arnold's  resolution 
to  speak  was  as  firmly  settled  as  a  resolution  could  be.     And 


MAN   AND   WIPE.  55 

what  came  of  it?     Alas  for  human  infirmity!     Nothing  came 
of  it  but  silence. 

"You  don't  look  quite  at  your  ease,  Mr.  Brinkworth,"  said 
Blanche.  "  What  has  Sir  Patrick  been  saying  to  you  ?  My 
uncle  sharpens  his  wit  on  every  body.  He  has  been  sharpen- 
ing it  on  you  r 

Arnold  began  to  see  his  way.  At  an  immeasurable  distance 
— but  still  he  saw  it. 

"  Sir  Patrick  is  a  terrible  old  man,"  he  answered.  "  Just 
before  you  came  in  he  discovered  one  of  my  secrets  by  only 
looking  in  my  face."  He  paused,  rallied  his  courage,  pushed 
on  at  all  hazards,  and  came  headlong  to  the  point.  "I  won- 
der," he  asked,  bluntly,  "  whether  you  take  after  your  uncle  ?" 

Blanche  instantly  understood  him.  With  time  at  her  dis- 
posal, she  would  have  taken  him  lightly  in  hand,  and  led  him, 
by  fine  gradations,  to  the  object  in  view.  But  in  two  minutes 
or  less  it  would  be  Arnold's  turn  to  play.  "  He  is  going  to 
make  me  an  ofier,"  thought  Blanche ;  "  and  he  has  about  a 
minute  to  do  it  in.     He  shall  do  it !" 

"  What !"  she  exclaimed, "  do  you  think  the  gift  of  discovery 
runs  in  the  family  ?" 

Arnold  made  a  plunge. 

"  I  wish  it  did  !"  he  said. 

Blanche  looked  the  picture  of  astonishment. 

"  Why  ?"  she  asked. 

"  If  you  could  see  in  my  face  what  Sir  Patrick  saw — " 

He  had  only  to  finish  the  sentence,  and  the  thing  was  done. 
But  the  tender  passion  perversely  delights  in  raising  obstacles 
to  itself  A  sudden  timidity  seized  on  Arnold  exactly  at  the 
wrong  moment.  He  stopped  short,  in  the  most  awkward 
manner  possible. 

Blanche  heard  from  the  lawn  the  blow  of  the  mallet  on  the 
ball,  and  the  laughter  of  the  company  at  some  blunder  of  Sir 
Patrick's.  The  precious  seconds  were  slipping  away.  She 
could  have  boxed  Arnold  on  both  ears  for  being  so  unreason- 
ably afraid  of  her. 

"  Well,"  she  said,  impatiently,  "  if  I  did  look  in  your  face, 
what  should  I  see  ?" 

Arnold  made  another  plunge.     He  answered : 

"  You  would  see  that  I  want  a  little  encouraejement." 

"Fromwie.?" 

"  Yes — if  you  please." 

Blanche  looked  back  over  her  shoulder.  The  summer-house 
stood  on  an  eminence,  approached  by  steps.  The  players  on 
the  lawn  beneath  were  audible,  but  not  visible.  Any  one 
of  them  might  appear,  unexpectedly,  at  a  moment's  notice. 
Blanche  listened.     There  was  no  sound  of  approaching  foot- 


56  MAN    AND    WIFK. 

steps — there  was  a  general  hush,  and  then  another  bang  of  the 
mallet  on  the  ball,  and  then  a  clapping  of  hands.  Sir  Patrick 
was  a  privileged  person.  He  had  been  allowed,  in  all  proba- 
bility, to  try  again ;  and  he  was  succeeding  at  the  !<econd  ef- 
fort. This  implied  a  reprieve  of  some  seconds.  Blanche  looked 
back  again  at  Arnold. 

"  Consider  yourself  encouraged,"  she  whispered ;  and  in- 
stantly added,  with  the  ineradicable  female  instinct  of  self-de- 
fense, "within  limits!" 

Arnold  made  a  last  plunge — straight  to  the  bottom,  this 
time. 

"  Consider  yourself  loved,"  he  burst  out,  "  without  any  lim- 
its at  all." 

It  was  all  over — the  words  were  spoken — he  had  got  her  by 
the  hand.  Again  the  perversity  of  the  tender  passion  showed 
itself  more  strongly  than  ever.  The  confession  which  Blanche 
had  been  longing  to  hear  had  barely  escaped  her  lover's  lips 
before  Blanche  protested  against  it !  She  struggled  to  release 
her  hand.     She  formally  appealed  to  Arnold  to  let  her  go. 

Arnold  only  held  her  the  tighter. 

"Do  try  to  like  me  a  little  !"  he  pleaded.  "  I  am  so  fond  of 
you .'" 

Who  was  to  resist  such  wooing  as  this? — when  you  were 
privately  fond  of  him  yourself,  remember  !  and  when  you  were 
certain  to  be  interrupted  in  another  moment !  Blanche  left  off 
struggling,  and  looked  up  at  her  young  sailor  with  a  smile. 

"  Did  you  learn  this  method  of  making  love  in  the  merchant- 
service  ?"  she  inquired,  saucily. 

Arnold  persisted  in  contemplating  his  prospects  from  the 
serious  point  of  view. 

"  I'll  go  back  to  the  merchant-service,"  he  said,  "  if  I  have 
made  you  angry  with  me." 

Blanche  administered  another  dose  of  encouragement, 

"  Anger,  Mr.  Brinkworth,  is  one  of  the  bad  passions,"  she 
answered,  demurely.  "A  young  lady  who  has  been  properly 
brought  up  has  no  bad  passions." 

There  was  a  sudden  cry  from  the  players  on  the  lawn — a 
cry  for  "  Mr.  Brinkworth."  Blanche  tried  to  push  him  out. 
Arnold  was  immovable. 

"Say  something  to  encourage  me  before  I  go,"  he  pleaded. 
"  One  word  will  do.     Say,  Yes." 

Blanche  shook  her  head.  Now  she  had  got  him,  the  temp- 
tation to  tease  him  was  irresistible. 

"  Quite  impossible  !"  she  rejoined.  "  If  you  want  any  more 
encouragement,  you  must  speak  to  my  uncle." 

"  I'll  speak  to  him,"  returned  Arnold,  "  before  I  leave  the 
house." 


i 


MAN   AND   WIFE.  59 

There  was  another  cry  for  "Mr.  Brinkworth."  Blanche 
made  another  effort  to  push  him  out. 

"  Go  !"  she  said.     "And  mind  you  get  through  the  hoop  !" 

She  had  both  hands  on  his  shoulders — her  face  was  close  to 
his — she  was  simply  irresistible.  Arnold  caught  her  round  the 
waist  and  kissed  her.  Needless  to  tell  him  to  get  through  the 
hoop.  He  had  surely  got  through  it  already  !  Blanche  was 
speechless.  Arnold's  last  effort  in  the  art  of  courtship  had 
taken  away  her  bi'eath.  Before  she  could  recover  herself  a 
sound  of  approaching  footsteps  became  plainly  audible.  Ar- 
nold gave  her  a  last  squeeze,  and  ran  out. 

She  sank  on  the  nearest  chair,  and  closed  her  eyes  in  a  flut- 
ter of  delicious  confusion. 

The  footsteps  ascending  to  the  summer-house  came  nearer. 
Blanche  opened  her  eyes,  and  saw  Anne  Silvester,  standing 
alone,  looking  at  her.  She  sprang  to  her  feet,  and  threw  her 
arms  impulsively  round  Anne's  neck. 

"  You  don't  know  what  has  happened,"  she  whispered. 
"  Wish  me  joy,  darling.  He  has  said  the  words.  He  is  mine 
for  life !" 

All  the  sisterly  love  and  sisterly  confidence  of  many  years 
was  expressed  in  that  embrace,  and  in  the  tone  in  which  the 
words  were  spoken.  The  hearts  of  the  mothers,  in  the  past 
time,  could  liardly  have  been  closer  to  each  other — as  it  seem- 
ed— than  the  hearts  of  the  daughters  were  now.  And  yet,  if 
Blanche  had  looked  up  in  Anne's  face  at  that  moment,  she 
must  have  seen  that  Anne's  mind  was  far  away  from  her  little 
love-story. 

"  You  know  who  it  is  ?"  she  went  on,  after  waiting  for  a 
reply. 

"Mr.  Brinkworth?" 

"  Of  course  !     Who  else  should  it  be  ?" 

"And  you  are  really  happy,  my  love?" 

"Happy?"  repeated  Blanche.  "Mind!  this  is  strictly  be- 
tween ourselves.  I  am  ready  to  jump  out  of  my  skin  for  joy. 
I  love  him !  I  love  him !  I  love  him !"  she  cried,  with  a 
childish  pleasure  in  repeating  the  words.  They  were  echoed 
by  a  heavy  sigh.  Blanche  instantly  looked  up  into  Anne's 
face.  "  What's  the  matter  ?"  she  asked,  with  a  sudden  change 
of  voice  and  manner. 

"Nothing!" 

Blanche's  observation  saw  too  plainly  to  be  blinded  in  that 
way. 

"  There  is  something  the  matter,"  she  said.  "  Is  it  money  ?" 
she  added,  after  a  moment's  consideration.  "  Bills  to  pay  ?  I 
have  got  plenty  of  money,  Anne.     I'll  lend  you  what  you  like," 

"  No,  no,  my  dear  !" 


60  MAN    AND   WIFE. 

Blanche  drew  back,  a  little  hurt.  Anne  was  keeping  her  at 
a  distance  for  the  first  time  in  Blanche's  experience  of  her. 

"  I  tell  you  all  my  secrets,"  she  said.  "  Why  are  you  keep- 
ing a  secret  from  nief  Do  you  know  that  you  have  been  look- 
ing anxious  and  out  of  spirits  for  some  time  past  ?  Perhaps 
you  don't  like  Mr.  Brinkworth  ?  No  ?  you  do  like  him?  Is  it 
ray  marrying,  then  ?  I  believe  it  is !  You  fancy  we  shall  be 
parted,  you  goose  ?  As  if  I  could  do  without  you  !  Of  course, 
when  I  am  married  to  Arnold,  you  will  come  and  live  with  us. 
That's  quite  understood  between  us — isn't  it  ?" 

Anne  drew  herself  suddenly,  almost  roughly,  away  from 
Blanche,  and  pointed  out  to  the  steps. 

"  There  is  somebody  coming,"  she  said.     "  Look !" 

The  person  coming  was  Arnold.  It  was  Blanche's  turn  to 
play,  and  he  had  volunteered  to  fetch  her. 

Blanche's  attention — easily  enough  distracted  on  other  oc- 
casions— remained  steadily  fixed  on  Anne. 

"  You  are  not  yourself,"  she  said,  "  and  I  must  know  the 
reason  of  it.  I  will  wait  till  to-night ;  and  then  you  will  tell 
me,  when  you  come  into  my  room.  Don't  look  like  that ! 
You  sfiall  tell  me.  And  there's  a  kiss  for  you  in  the  mean 
time  !" 

She  joined  Arnold,  and  recovered  her  gayety  the  moment 
she  looked  at  him. 

"  Well !     Have  you  got  through  the  hoops  ?" 

"  Never  mind  the  hoops.  I  have  broken  the  ice  with  Sir 
Patrick." 

"  What !  before  all  the  company  !" 

"  Of  course  not !  I  have  made  an  appointment  to  speak  to 
him  here." 

They  went  laughing  down  the  steps,  and  joined  the  game. 

Left  alone,  Anne  Silvester  walked  slowly  to  the  inner  an>i 
darker  part  of  the  summer-house.  A  glass,  in  a  carved  wooden 
frame,  was  fixed  against  one  of  the  side  walls.  She  stopped 
and  looked  into  it — looked,  shuddering:,  at  the  reflection  of  her- 
self. 

"  Is  the  time  coming,"  she  said,  "  when  even  Blanche  will 
see  what  I  am  in  my  face  ?" 

She  turned  aside  from  the  glass.  With  a  sudden  cry  of  de- 
spair she  flung  up  her  arms  and  laid  them  heavily  against  the 
wall,  and  rested  her  head  on  them  with  her  back  to  the  light. 
At  the  same  moment  a  man's  figure  appeared — standing  dark 
in  the  flood  of  sunshine  at  the  entrance  to  the  summer-ho'iise. 
The  man  was  GeoflTrey  Delamayn. 


MAN   AND    WIPE.  61 


CHAPTER  THE  FOURTH. 

THE    TWO. 


He  advanced  a  few  steps,  and  stopped.  Absorbed  in  her- 
self, Anne  failed  to  hear  him.     She  never  moved. 

"  I  have  come,  as  you  made  a  point  of  it,"  he  said,  sullenly. 
"  But,  mind  you,  it  isn't  safe." 

At  the  sound  of  his  voice,  Anne  turned  toward  him.  A 
change  of  expression  appeared  in  her  face,  as  she  slowly  ad- 
vanced from  the  back  of  the  summer-house,  which  revealed  a 
likeness  to  her  mother,  not  perceivable  at  other  times.  As  the 
mother  had  looked,  in  by-gone  days,  at  the  man  who  had  dis- 
owned her,  so  the  daughter  looked  at  Geoffrey  Delamayn — 
with  the  same  terrible  composure,  and  the  same  terrible  con- 
tempt. 

"  Well  ?"  he  asked.     "  What  have  you  got  to  say  to  me  ?" 

"  Mr.  Delamayn,"  she  answered,  "  you  are  one  of  the  fortu- 
nate people  of  this  world.  You  are  a  nobleman's  son.  You 
are  a  handsome  man.  You  are  popular  at  your  college.  You 
are  free  of  the  best  houses  in  England.  Are  you  something 
besides  all  this?     Are  you  a  coward  and  a  scoundrel  as  well?" 

He  started — opened  his  lips  to  speak — checked  himself — and 
made  an  uneasy  attempt  to  laugh  it  off.  "Come,"  he  said, 
"  keep  your  temper." 

The  suppressed  passion  in  her  began  to  force  its  way  to  the 
surface. 

"  Keep  my  temper?"  she  repeated.  "  Do  you  of  all  men  ex- 
pect me  to  control  myself?  What  a  memory  yours  must  be  ! 
Have  you  forgotten  the  time  when  I  was  fool  enough  to  think 
you  were  fond  of  me  ?  and  mad  enough  to  believe  you  could 
keep  a  promise  ?" 

He  persisted  in  trying  to  laugh  it  off.  "  Mad  is  a  strongish 
word  to  use.  Miss  Silvester  !" 

"  Mad  is  the  right  word  !  I  look  back  at  my  own  infatuation 
— and  I  can't  account  for  it ;  I  can't  understand  myself.  What 
was  there  in  yow,"  she  asked,  with  an  outbreak  of  contempt- 
uous surprise,  "  to  attract  such  a  woman  as  I  am  ?" 

His  inexhaustible  good-nature  was  proof  even  against  this. 
He  put  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  and  said,  "  I'm  sure  I  don't 
know." 

She  turned  away  from  him.  The  frank  brutality  of  the  an- 
swer had  not  offended  her.  It  forced  her,  cruelly  forced  her, 
to  remember  that  she  had  nobody  but  herself  to  blame  for  the 


62  MAN    AND    WIFE. 

position  in  which  she  stood  at  that  moment.  She  was  unwill- 
ing to  let  him  see  how  the  remembrance  hurt  her — that  was 
all.  A  sad,  sad  story  ;  but  it  must  be  told.  In  her  mother's 
time,  she  had  been  the  sweetest,  the  most  lovable  of  children. 
In  later  days,  under  the  care  of  her  mother's  friend,  her  girl- 
hood had  passed  so  harmlessly  and  so  happily — it  seemed  as 
if  the  sleeping  passions  might  sleep  forever  I  She  had  lived  on 
to  the  prime  of  her  womanhood — and  then,  when  the  treasure 
of  her  life  was  at  its  richest,  in  one  fatal  moment  she  had  flung 
it  away  on  the  man  in  whose  presence  she  now  stood. 

Was  she  without  excuse  ?     No :  not  utterly  without  excuse. 

She  had  seen  him  under  other  aspects  than  the  aspect  which 
he  presented  now.  She  had  seen  him,  the  hero  of  the  river- 
race,  the  first  and  foremost  man  in  a  trial  of  strength  and  skill 
which  had  roused  the  enthusiasm  of  all  England.  She  had 
seen  him,  the  central  object  of  the  interest  of  a  nation ;  the 
idol  of  the  popular  worship  and  the  popular  applause.  His 
were  the  arms  whose  muscle  was  celebrated  in  the  newspapers. 
He  was  first  among  the  heroes  hailed  by  ten  thousand  roaring 
throats  as  the  pride  and  flower  of  England.  A  woman,  in  an 
atmosphere  of  red-hot  enthusiasm,  witnesses  the  apotheosis  of 
Physical  Strength.  Is  it  reasonable — is  it  just — to  expect  her 
to  ask  herself,  in  cold  blood.  What  (morally  and  intellectually) 
is  all  this  worth  ? — and  that,  when  the  man  who  is  the  object 
of  the  apotheosis,  notices  her,  is  presented  to  her,  finds  her  to 
his  taste,  and  singles  her  out  from  the  rest?  No.  While  hu- 
manity is  humanity,  the  woman  is  not  utterly  without  excuse. 

Has  she  escaped,  without  suflering  for  it  ? 

Look  at  her  as  she  stands  there,  tortured  by  the  knowledge 
of  her  own  secret — the  hideous  secret  which  she  is  hiding  from 
the  innocent  girl,  whom  she  loves  with  a  sister's  love.  Look 
at  her,  bowed  down  under  a  humiliation  which  is  unutterable 
in  words.  She  has  seen  him  below  the  surface — now,  when  it 
is  too  late.  She  rates  him  at  his  true  value — now,  when  her 
reputation  is  at  his  mercy.  Ask  her  the  question  :  What  was 
there  to  love  in  a  man  who  can  speak  to  you  as  that  man  has 
spoken,  who  can  ti-eat  you  as  that  man  is  treating  you  now  ? 
you  so  clever,  so  cultivated,  so  refined  —  what,  in  Heaven's 
name,  could  you  see  in  him  ?  Ask  her  that,  and  she  will  have 
no  answer  to  give.  She  will  not  even  remind  you  that  he  was 
once  your  model  of  manly  beauty,  too — that  you  waved  your 
handkerchief  till  you  could  wave  it  no  longer,  when  he  took 
his  seat,  with  the  others,  in  the  boat — that  your  heart  was 
like  to  jump  out  of  your  bosom,  on  that  later  occasion  when 
he  leaped  the  last  hurdle  at  the  foot-race,  and  won  it  by  a 
head.     In  the  bitterness  of  her  remorse,  she  will  not  even  seek 


MAN    AND    AVIFE.  63 

for  that  excuse  for  herself.  Is  there  no  atoning  suffering  to 
be  seen  here  ?  Do  your  sympathies  shrink  from  such  a  cliarac- 
ter  as  this?  Follow  her,  good  friends  of  virtue,  on  the  pilgrim- 
age that  leads,  by  steep  and  thorny  ways,  to  the  purer  atmos- 
phere and  the  nobler  life.  Your  fellow-creature,  who  has  sin- 
ned and  has  repented — you  have  the  authority  of  the  Divine 
Teacher  for  it — is  your  fellow-creature,  purified  and  ennobled. 
A  joy  among  the  angels  of  heaven — oh,  my  brothers  and  sis- 
ters of  the  earth,  have  I  not  laid  my  hand  on  a  tit  companion 
for  You  ? 

There  was  a  moment  of  silence  in  the  summer-house.  The 
cheerful  tumult  of  the  lawn-party  was  pleasantly  audible  from 
the  distance.  Outside,  the  hum  of  voices,  the  laughter  of  girls, 
the  thump  of  the  croquet-mallet  against  the  ball.  Inside,  noth- 
ing but  a  woman  forcing  back  the  bitter  tears  of  sorrow  and 
shame — and  a  man  who  was  tired  of  her. 

She  roused  herself.  She  was  her  mother's  daughter;  and 
she  had  a  spark  of  her  mother's  spirit.  Her  life  depended  on 
the  issue  of  that  interview.  It  was  useless — without  father 
or  brother  to  take  her  part — to  lose  the  last  chance  of  appeal- 
ing to  him.  She  dashed  away  the  tears — time  enough  to  cry, 
is  time  easily  found  in  a  woman's  existence — she  dashed  away 
the  tears,  and  spoke  to  him  again,  more  gently  than  she  had 
spoken  yet. 

"You  have  been  three  weeks,  Geoffrey,  at  your  brother 
Julius's  place,  not  ten  miles  from  here  ;  and  you  have  never 
once  ridden  over  to  see  me.  You  would  not  have  come  to-day, 
if  I  had  not  written  to  you  to  insist  on  it.  Is  that  the  treat- 
ment I  have  deserved  ?" 

She  paused.     There  was  no  answer. 

"  Do  you  hear  me  ?"  she  asked,  advancing  and  speaking  in 
louder  tones. 

He  was  still  silent.  It  was  not  in  human  endurance  to  bear 
his  contempt.  The  warning  of  a  coming  outbreak  began  to 
show  itself  in  her  face.  He  met  it,  beforehand,  with  an  im- 
peneti'able  front.  Feeling  nervous  about  the  interview,  while 
he  was  waiting  in  the  rose-garden — now  that  he  stood  com- 
mitted to  it,  he  was  in  full  possession  of  himself  He  was 
composed  enough  to  remember  that  he  had  not  put  his  pipe 
in  its  case — composed  enough  to  set  that  little  matter  right 
before  other  matters  went  any  further.  He  took  the  case  out 
of  one  pocket,  and  the  pipe  out  of  another. 

"  Go  on,"  he  said,  quietly.     "  I  hear  you." 

She  struck  the  pipe  out  of  his  hand  at  a  blow.  If  she  had 
had  the  strength  she  would  have  struck  him  down  with  it  on 
the  floor  of  the  summer-house. 


64  MAN    AND   WIFE. 

"  How  dare  you  use  me  in  this  way  ?"  she  burst  oat,  vehe- 
mently.    "  Your  conduct  is  infamous.     Defend  it  if  you  can  !" 

He  made  no  attempt  to  defend  it.  He  looked,  with  an  ex- 
pression of  genuine  anxiety,  at  the  fallen  pipe.  It  was  beauti- 
fully colored — it  had  cost  him  ten  shillings.  "I'll  pick  up  my 
pipe  first,"  he  said.  His  face  brightened  pleasantly — he  looked 
handsomer  than  ever — as  he  examined  the  precious  object,  and 
put  it  back  in  the  case.  "All  right,"  he  said  to  himself.  "  She 
hasn't  broken  it."  His  attitude,  as  he  looked  at  her  again, 
was  the  perfection  of  easy  grace — the  grace  that  attends  on 
cultivated  strength  in  a  state  of  repose.  "I  put  it  to  your 
own  common  sense,"  he  said,  in  the  most  reasonable  manner, 
"what's  the  good  of  bullying  me?  You  don't  want  them  to 
hear  you  out  on  the  lawn  there — do  you  ?  You  women  are  all 
alike.  There's  no  beating  a  little  prudence  into  your  heads, 
try  how  one  may." 

There  he  waited,  expecting  her  to  speak.  She  waited,  on 
her  side,  and  forced  him  to  go  on. 

"  Look  here,"  he  said,  "  there's  no  need  to  quarrel,  you  know. 
I  don't  want  to  break  my  promise;  but  what  can  I  do?  I'm 
not  the  eldest  son.  I'm  dependent  on  my  father  for  every  far- 
thing I  have  ;  and  I'm  on  bad  terms  with  him  already.  Can't 
you  see  it  yourself;  you're  a  lady,  and  all  that,  I  know.  But 
you're  only  a  governess.  It's  your  interest  as  well  as  mine 
to  wait  till  my  father  has  provided  for  me.  Here  it  is  in  a 
nutshell :  if  I  marry  you  now,  I'm  a  ruined  man." 

The  answer  came,  this  time. 

*'  You  villain !  if  you  rfon'<  marry  me,  I  am  a  ruined  wom- 
an !" 

"What  do  you  mean?" 

"  You  know  what  I  mean.     Don't  look  at  me  in  that  way." 

"  How  do  you  expect  me  to  look  at  a  woman  who  calls  me 
a  villain  to  my  face  ?" 

She  suddenly  changed  her  tone.  The  savage  element  in  hu- 
manity— let  the  modern  optimists  who  doubt  its  existence  look 
at  any  uncultivated  man  (no  matter  how  muscular),  woman 
(no  matter  how  beautiful),  or  child  (no  matter  how  young) — 
began  to  show  itself  furtively  in  his  eyes,  to  utter  itself  furtive- 
ly in  his  voice.  Was  he  to  blame  for  the  manner  in  which  he 
looked  at  her  and  spoke  to  her  ?  Not  he !  What  had  there 
been  in  the  training  of  his  life  (at  school  or  at  college)  to 
soften  and  subdue  the  savage  element  in  him  ?  About  as  much 
as  there  had  been  in  the  training  of  his  ancestors  (without  the 
school  or  the  college)  five  hundred  years  since. 

It  was  plain  that  one  of  them  must  give  way.  The  woman 
had  the  most  at  stake  —  and  the  woman  set  the  example  of 
Bubmission. 


MAN    AND    WIFK.  65 

"  Don't  be  hard  on  me,"  she  pleaded.  "  I  don't  mean  to  be 
hard  on  yon.  My  temper  gets  the  better  of  me.  You  know 
my  tempei'.  I  am  sorry  I  forgot  myself.  Geoflfrey,  my  whole 
future  is  in  your  hands.     Will  you  do  me  justice?" 

She  came  nearer,  and  laid  her  hand  persuasively  on  his  arm. 

"Haven't  you  a  word  to  say  to  me?  No  answer?  Not 
even  a  look  ?"  She  waited  a  moment  more.  A  marked  change 
came  over  her.  She  turned  slowly  to  leave  the  summer-house. 
"  I  am  sorry  to  have  troubled  you,  Mr.  Delamayn.  I  won't  de- 
tain you  any  longer." 

He  looked  at  her.  There  was  a  tone  in  her  voice  that  he 
had  never  heard  before.  There  was  a  light  in  her  eyes  that 
he  had  never  seen  in  them  before.  Suddenly  and  fiercely  he 
reached  out  his  hand,  and  stopped  her. 

"  Where  are  you  going  ?"  he  asked. 

She  answered,  looking  him  straight  in  the  face,  "  Where 
many  a  miserable  woman  has  gone  before  me.  Out  of  the 
world." 

He  drew  her  nearer  to  him,  and  eyed  her  closely.  Even  his 
intelligence  discovered  that  he  had  brought  her  to  bay,  and 
that  she  really  meant  it ! 

"  Do  you  mean  you  will  destroy  yourself?"  he  said. 

"  Yes.     I  mean  I  will  destroy  myself" 

He  dropped  her  arm.     "  By  Jupiter,  she  does  mean  it !" 

With  that  conviction  in  him,  he  pushed  one  of  the  chairs  in 
the  summer-house  to  her  with  his  foot,  and  signed  to  her  to 
take  it.  "  Sit  down !"  he  said,  roughly.  She  had  frightened 
him — and  fear  comes  seldom  to  men  of  his  type.  They  feel  it, 
when  it  does  come,  with  an  angry  distrust ;  they  grow  loud 
and  brutal,  in  instinctive  protest  against  it.  "  Sit  down  !"  he 
repeated.  She  obeyed  him.  "  Haven't  you  got  a  word  to  say 
to  me  ?"  he  asked,  with  an  oath.  No  !  there  she  sat,  immov- 
able, reckless  how  it  ended  —  as  only  women  can  be,  when 
women's  minds  are  made  up.  He  took  a  turn  in  the  summer- 
house  and  came  back,  and  struck  his  hand  angrily  on  the  rail 
of  her  chair.     "  What  do  you  want  ?" 

"  You  know  what  I  want." 

He  took  another  turn.  There  was  nothing  for  it  but  to  give 
way  on  his  side,  or  run  the  risk  of  something  happening  which 
might  cause  an  awkward  scandal,  and  come  to  his  father's  ears. 

"  Look  here,  Anne,"  he  began,  abruptly.  "  I  have  got  some- 
thing to  propose." 

She  looked  up  at  him. 

"  What  do  you  say  to  a  private  marriage  ?" 

Without  asking  a  single  question,  without  making  objec- 
tions, she  answered  him,  speaking  as  bluntly  as  he  had  spoken 
himself'. 
5 


66  MAN    AND    WIPE. 

"I  consent  to  a  private  marriage." 

He  began  to  temporize  directly. 

"  I  own  I  don't  see  how  it's  to  be  managed — "  She  stopped 
him  there. 

"I  do!" 

"What!"  he  cried  out,  suspiciously.  "You  have  thought 
of  it  yourself,  have  you  ?" 

"Yes." 

"  And  planned  for  it  ?" 

"  And  planned  for  it !" 

"Why  didn't  you  tell  me  so  before?" 

She  answered  haughtily ;  insisting  on  the  respect  which  is 
due  to  women— the  respect  which  was  doubly  due  from  him, 
in  her  position. 

"  Because  you  owed  it  to  me,  sir,  to  speak  first." 

"  Very  well.     I've  spoken  first.     Will  you  wait  a  little  ?" 

"  Not  a  day  !" 

The  tone  was  positive.  There  was  no  mistaking  it.  Her 
mind  was  made  up. 

"  Where's  the  hurry  ?" 

"Have  you  eyes?"  she  asked,  vehemently.  "Have  you 
ears?  Do  you  see  how  Lady  Lundie  looks  at  me?  Do  you 
hear  how  Lady  Lundie  speaks  to  me?  I  am  suspected  by 
that  woman.  My  shameful  dismissal  from  this  house  may  be 
a  question  of  a  few  hours."  Her  head  sunk  on  her  bosom ;  she 
wrung  her  clasped  hands  as  they  rested  on  her  lap.  "And,  oh, 
Blanche !"  she  moaned  to  herself,  the  tears  gathering  again, 
and  falling,  this  time,  unchecked.  "  Blanche,  who  looks  up  to 
me  !  Blanche,  who  loves  me !  Blanche,  who  told  me,  in  this 
very  place,  that  I  was  to  live  with  her  when  she  was  married  !" 
She  started  up  from  the  chair ;  the  tears  dried  suddenly ;  the 
hard  despair  settled  again,  wan  and  white,  on  her  face.  "  Let 
me  go !  What  is  death,  compared  to  such  a  life  as  is  waiting 
for  me  .^"  She  looked  him  over,  in  one  disdainful  glance  from 
head  to  foot ;  her  voice  rose  to  its  loudest  and  firmest  tones. 
"  Why,  even  you  would  have  the  courage  to  die  if  you  were  in 
my  place  !" 

Geofii-ey  glanced  round  toward  the  lawn. 

"  Hush  !"  he  said.     "  They  will  hear  you !" 

"  Let  them  hear  me  !  When  I  am  past  hearing  them,  what 
does  it  matter  ?" 

He  put  her  back  by  main  force  on  the  chair.  In  another 
moment  they  must  have  heard  her,  through  all  the  noise  and 
laughter  of  the  game. 

"  Say  what  you  want,"  he  resumed,  "  and  I'll  do  it.  Only 
be  reasonable.     I  can't  marry  you  to-day." 

"  You  can  I" 


MAN   AND   WIFE.  67 

"  What  nonsense  you  talk !  The  house  and  grounds  are 
swarming  with  company.     It  can't  be  !" 

"  It  can  !  I  have  been  thinking  about  it  evei*  since  we  came 
to  this  house.  I  have  got  something  to  propose  to  you.  Will 
you  hear  it,  or  not  ?" 

"  Speak  lower !" 

"  Will  you  hear  it,  or  not  ?" 

"  There's  somebody  coming !" 

"  Will  you  hear  it,  or  not  ?" 

"  The  devil  take  your  obstinacy  !     Yes  !" 

The  answer  had  been  wrung  from  him.  Still,  it  was  the  an- 
swer she  wanted — it  opened  the  door  to  hope.  The  instant  he 
had  consented  to  hear  her  her  mind  awakened  to  the  serious 
necessity  of  averting  discovery  by  any  third  person  who  might 
stray  idly  into  the  summer-house.  She  held  up  her  hand  for 
silence,  and  listened  to  what  was  going  forward  on  the  lawn. 

The  dull  thump  of  the  croquet-mallet  against  the  ball  was 
no  longer  to  be  heard.     The  game  had  stopped. 

In  a  moment  more  she  heard  her  own  name  called.  An  in- 
terval of  another  instant  passed,  and  a  familiar  voice  said,  "  I 
know  where  she  is.     I'll  fetch  her." 

She  turned  to  Geoffrey,  and  pointed  to  the  back  of  the  sum- 
mer-house. 

"It's  my  turn  to  play,"  she  said.  "And  Blanche  is  coming 
here  to  look  for  me.     Wait  there,  and  I'll  stop  her  on  the  steps." 

She  went  out  at  once.  It  was  a  critical  moment.  Discov- 
ery, which  meant  moral-ruin  to  the  woman,  meant  money-ruin 
to  the  man.  Geoffrey  had  not  exaggerated  his  position  with 
his  father.  Lord  Holchester  had  twice  paid  his  debts,  and  had 
declined  to  see  him  since.  One  more  outrage  on  his  father's 
rigid  sense  of  propriety,  and  he  would  be  left  out  of  the  will 
as  well  as  kept  out  of  the  house.  He  looked  for  a  means  of 
retreat,  in  case  there  was  no  escaping  unperceived  by  the  front 
entrance.  A  door — intended  for  the  use  of  servants,  when  pic- 
nics and  gypsy  tea-parties  were  given  in  the  summer-house — 
had  been  made  in  the  back  wall.  It  opened  outward,  and  it 
was  locked.  With  his  strength  it  was  easy  to  remove  that 
obstacle.  He  put  his  shoulder  to  the  door.  At  the  moment 
when  he  burst  it  open  he  felt  a  hand  on  his  arm.  Anne  was 
behind  him,  alone. 

"  You  may  want  it  before  long,"  she  said,  observing  the  open 
door,  without  expressing  any  surprise.  "  You  don't  want  it 
now.  Another  person  will  play  for  me — I  have  told  Blanche 
I  am  not  well.  Sit  down.  I  have  secured  a  respite  of  five 
minutes,  and  I  must  make  the  most  of  it.  In  that  time,  or 
less,  Lady  Lundie's  suspicions  will  bring  her  here — to  see  how 
I  am.     For  the  present,  shut  the  door." 


68  MAN   AND  WU'E. 

She  seated  herself,  and  pointed  to  a  second  chair.     He  took 
it — with  his  eye  on  the  closed  door. 

"  Come  to  the  point !"  he  said,  impatiently.     "  What  is  it  ?" 
"  You  can  marry  me  privately  to-day,"  she  answered.  "  List- 
en— and  I  will  tell  you  how  !" 


CHAPTER  THE  FIFTH. 

THE   PLAN. 


She  took  his  hand,  and  began  with  all  the  art  of  persuasion 
that  she  possessed. 

"  One  question,  Geoffrey,  before  I  say  what  I  want  to  say. 
Lady  Lundie  has  invited  you  to  stay  at  Windygates.  Do  you 
accept  her  invitation  ?  or  do  you  go  back  to  your  brother's  in 
the  evening  ?" 

"  I  can't  go  back  in  the  evening — they've  put  a  visitor  into 
ray  room.  I'm  obliged  to  stay  here.  My  brother  has  done  it 
on  purpose.  Julius  helps  me  when  I'm  hard  up — and  bullies 
me  afterward.  He  has  sent  me  here,  on  duty  for  the  fam- 
ily. Somebody  must  be  civil  to  Lady  Lundie — and  I'm  the 
sacrifice." 

She  took  him  up  at  his  last  word.  "  Don't  make  the  sacri- 
fice," she  said.  "Apologize  to  Lady  Lundie,  and  say  you  are 
obliged  to  go  back." 

"  Why  ?" 

"  Because  we  must  both  leave  this  place  to-day." 

There  was  a  double  objection  to  that.  If  he  left  Lady  Lun- 
die's,  he  would  fail  to  establish  a  future  pecuniary  claim  on  his 
brother's  indulgence.  And  if  he  left  with  Anne,  the  eyes  of 
the  world  would  see  them,  and  the  whispers  of  the  world  might 
come  to  his  father's  ears. 

"If  we  go  away  together,"  he  said,  "good-bye  to  my  pros- 
pects, and  yours  too." 

"  I  don't  mean  that  we  shall  leave  together,"  she  explained. 
"  We  will  leave  separately — and  I  will  go  first." 

"There  will  be  a  hue  and  cry  after  you,  when  you  are 
missed." 

"There  will  be  a  dance  when  the  croquet  is  over.  I  don't 
dance — and  I  shall  not  be  missed.  There  will  be  time,  and  op- 
portunity, to  get  to  my  own  room.  I  shall  leave  a  letter  there 
for  Lady  Lundie,  and  a  letter  " — her  voice  trembled  for  a  mo- 
ment— '*  and  a  letter  for  Blanche.  Don't  interrupt  me  !  I 
have  thought  of  this,  as  I  have  thought  of  every  thing  else. 
The  confession  I  shall  make  will  be  the  truth  in  a  few  hours 


MAN   AND   WIFE.  69 

if  it's  not  the  truth  now.  My  letters  will  say  I  am  privately 
married,  and  called  away  unexpectedly  to  join  my  husband. 
There  will  be  a  scandal  in  the  house,  I  know.  But  there  will 
be  no  excuse  for  sending  after  me,  when  I  am  under  my  hus- 
band's protection.  So  far  as  you  are  personally  concerned 
there  are  no  discoveries  to  fear — and  nothing  which  it  is  not 
perfectly  safe  and  perfectly  easy  to  do.  Wait  here  an  hour 
after  I  have  gone,  to  save  appearances  ;  and  then  follow  me." 

"  Follow  you  ?"  interposed  Geoffrey.     "  Where  ?" 

She  drew  her  chair  nearer  to  him,  and  whispered  the  next 
words  in  his  ear. 

"  To  a  lonely  little  mountain  inn — four  miles  from  this." 

"An  inn  !" 

"  Why  not  ?" 

"An  inn  is  a  public  place." 

A  movement  of  natural  impatience  escaped  her  —  but  she 
controlled  herself,  and  went  on  as  quietly  as  before  : 

"The  place  I  mean  is  the  loneliest  place  in  the  neighborhood. 
You  have  no  prying  eyes  to  dread  there.  I  have  picked  it  out 
expressly  for  that  reason.  It's  away  from  the  railway  ;  it's 
away  from  the  high-road  :  it's  kept  by  a  decent,  respectable 
Scotchwoman — " 

"Decent,  respectable  Scotchwomen  who  keep  inns,"  inter- 
posed Geoffrey,  "  don't  cotton  to  young  ladies  who  are  travel- 
ing alone.     The  landlady  Avon't  receive  you." 

It  was  a  well-aimed  objection — but  it  missed  the  mark.  A 
woman  bent  on  her  marriage  is  a  woma^n  who  can  meet  the 
objections  of  the  whole  world,  single-handed,  and  refute  them 
all. 

"  I  have  provided  for  every  thing,"  she  said  ;  "  and  I  have 
provided  for  that.  I  shall  tell  the  landlady  I  am  on  my  wed- 
ding-trip. I  shall  say  my  husband  is  sight-seeing,  on  foot, 
among  the  mountains  in  the  neighborhood — " 

"  She  is  sure  to  believe  that !"  said  Geoffrey. 

"  She  is  sure  to  o?«A'believe  it,  if  you  like.  Let  her !  You 
have  only  to  appear,  and  to  ask  for  your  wife — and  there  is  my 
story  proved  to  be  true !  She  may  be  the  most  suspicious 
woman  living,  as  long  as  I  am  alone  with  her.  The  moment 
you  join  me,  you  set  her  suspicions  at  rest.  Leave  me  to  do 
my  part.     My  part  is  the  hard  one.     Will  you  do  yours  ?" 

It  was  impossible  to  say  No :  she  had  fairly  cut  the  ground 
from  under  his  feet.  He  shifted  his  ground.  Any  thing  rather 
than  say  Yes ! 

"  I  suppose  you  know  how  we  are  to  be  married  ?"  he  asked. 
"All  I  can  say  is — Z don't." 

"  You  do  !"  she  retorted.  "  You  know  that  we  are  in  Scot- 
land.    You  know  that  there  are  neither  forms,  ceremonies,  not 


r 


10  MAN   AND   WIFE. 

delays  in  marriage  here.  The  plan  I  have  proposed  to  you 
secures  ray  being  received  at  the  inn,  and  makes  it  easy  and 
natural  for  you  to  join  me  there  afterward.  The  rest  is  in  our 
own  hands.  A  man  and  a  woman  who  wish  to  be  married  (in 
Scotland)  have  only  to  secure  the  necessary  witnesses  and  the 
thing  is  done.  If  the  landlady  chooses  to  resent  the  deception 
practiced  on  her,  after  that,  the  landlady  may  do  as  she  pleases. 
We  shall  have  gained  our  object  in  spite  of  her — and,  what  is 
more,  we  shall  have  gained  it  without  risk  to  you.'''' 

"  Don't  lay  it  all  on  my  shoulders,"  Geoffrey  rejoined. 
"  You  women  go  headlong  at  every  thing.  Say  we  are  mar- 
ried. We  must  separate  afterward — or  how  are  we  to  keep  it 
a  secret '?" 

"Certainly.  You  will  go  back,  of  course,  to  your  brother's 
house,  as  if  nothing  had  happened." 

"And  what  is  to  become  of  you  P^ 

"  I  shall  go  to  London." 

"  What  are  you  to  do  in  London  ?" 

"  Haven't  I  already  told  you  that  I  have  thought  of  every 
thing  ?  When  I  get  to  London  I  shall  apply  to  some  of  ray 
mother's  old  friends — friends  of  hers  in  the  time  when  she  was 
a  musician.  Every  body  tells  me  I  have  a  voice — if  I  had  only 
cultivated  it.  I  loill  cultivate  it !  I  can  live,  and  live  respect- 
ably, as  a  concert  singer.  I  have  saved  money  enough  to 
support  me  while  I  am  learning — and  my  mother's  friends  will 
h^elp  me,  for  her  sake." 

So,  in  the  new  life  that  she  was  raarking  out,  was  she  now 
unconsciously  reflecting  in  herself  the  life  of  her  mother  before 
her.  Here  was  the  mother's  career  as  a  public  singer,  chosen 
(in  spite  of  all  efforts  to  prevent  it)  by  the  child  !  Here  (though 
with  other  motives,  and  under  other  circumstances)  was  the 
mother's  irregular  marriage  in  Ireland,  on  the  point  of  being 
followed  by  the  daughter's  irregular  marriage  in  Scotland  ! 
And  here,  stranger  still,  M^as  the  man  who  was  answerable  for 
it — the  son  of  the  man  who  had  found  the  flaw  in  the  Irish 
marriage,  and  had  shown  the  way  by  which  her  raother  was 
thrown  on  the  world  !  "  My  Anne  is  ray  second  self  She  is 
not  called  by  her  father's  name ;  she  is  called  by  mine.  She  is 
Anne  Silvester,  as  I  was.  Will  she  end  like  Me  ?" — The  answer 
to  those  words — the  last  words  that  had  trembled  on  the  dying 
mother's  lips — was  coming  fast.  Through  the  chances  and 
changes  of  many  years,  the  future  was  pressing  near  —  and 
Anne  Silvester  stood  on  the  brink  of  it. 

^  "  Well  ?"  she  resumed.  "Are  you  at  the  end  of  your  ob- 
jections ?     Can  you  give  me  a  plain  answer  at  last  ?" 

No !  He  had  another  objection  ready  as  the  words  passed 
her  lips. 


MAN   AND   WIPE.  71 

"  Suppose  the  witnesses  at  the  inn  happen  to  know  me  ?"  he 
said.     "  Suppose  it  comes  to  my  father's  ears  in  that  way  ?" 

"  Suppose  you  drive  me  to  my  death '?"  she  retorted,  starting 
to  her  feet.  "  Your  father  shall  know  the  truth,  in  that  case — 
I  swear  it !" 

He  rose,  on  his  side,  and  drew  back  from  her.  She  followed 
him  up.  There  was  a  clapping  of  hands,  at  the  same  moment, 
on  the  lawn.  Somebody  had  evidently  made  a  brilliant  stroke 
which  promised  to  decide  the  game.  There  was  no  security 
now  that  Blanche  might  not  return  again.  There  was  every 
prospect,  the  game  being  over,  that  Lady  Lundie  would  be 
free,  Anne  brought  the  interview  to  its  crisis,  without  wast- 
ing a  moment  more, 

"  Mr,  Geofirey  Delamayn,"  she  said.  "  You  have  bargained 
for  a  private  marriage,  and  I  have  consented.  Are  you,  or  are 
you  not,  ready  to  marry  me  on  your  own  terms  ?" 

"  Give  me  a  minute  to  think  !" 

"  Not  an  instant.     Once  for  all,  is  it  Yes,  or  No  ?" 

He  couldn't  say  "  Yes,"  even  then.  But  he  said  what  was 
equivalent  to  it.     He  asked,  savagely,  "  Where  is  the  inn  ?" 

She  put  her  arm  in  his,  and  whispered,  rapidly, 

"Pass  the  road  on  the  right  that  leads  to  the  railway.  Fol- 
low the  path  over  the  moor,  and  the  sheep-track  up  the  hill. 
The  first  house  you  come  to  after  that  is  the  inn.  You  under- 
stand !" 

He  nodded  his  head,  with  a  sullen  frown,  and  took  his  pipe 
out  of  his  pocket  again. 

"  Let  it  alone  this  time,"  he  said,  meeting  her  eye.  "  My 
mind's  upset.  When  a  man's  mind's  upset,  a  man  must  smoke. 
What's  the  name  of  the  place  ?" 

"  Craig  Fernie." 

"  Who  am  I  to  ask  for  at  the  door  ?" 

"  For  your  wife." 

"  Suppose  they  want  you  to  give  your  name  when  you  get 
there  ?" 

"If  I  must  give  a  name,  I  shall  call  myself  Mrs.,  instead  of 
Miss,  Silvester.  But  I  shall  do  my  best  to  avoid  giving  any 
name.  And  you  will  do  your  best  to  avoid  making  a  mistake, 
by  only  asking  for  me  as  your  wife.  Is  there  any  thing  else 
you  want  to  know?" 

"  Yes." 

"  Be  quick  about  it !     What  is  it  ?" 

"  How  am  I  to  know  you  have  got  away  from  here  ?" 

"  If  you  don't  hear  from  me  in  half  an  hour  from  the  time 
when  I  have  left  you,  you  may  be  sure  I  have  got  away. 
Hush !" 

Two  voices,  in  conversation,  were  audible  at  the  bottom  of 


72  MAN   AND   WIFE. 

the  steps — Lady  Lundie's  voice  and  Sir  Patrick's.  Anne  point- 
ed to  the  door  in  the  back  wall  of  the  summer-house.  She  had 
just  pulled  it  to  again,  after  Geoffrey  had  passed  through  it, 
when  Lady  Lundie  and  Sir  Patrick  appeared  at  the  top  of  the 
steps. 


CHAPTER  THE  SIXTH. 

THE  SUITOR. 


Lady  Lundie  pointed  significantly  to  the  door,  and  addressed 
herself  to  Sir  Patrick's  private  ear. 

"Observe!"  she  said.  "Miss  Silvester  has  just  got  rid  of 
somebody." 

Sir  Patrick  deliberately  looked  in  the  wrong  direction,  and 
(in  the  politest  possible  manner)  observed — nothing. 

Lady  Lundie  advanced  into  the  summer-house.  Suspicious 
hatred  of  the  governess  was  written  legibly  in  every  line  of 
her  face.  Suspicious  distrust  of  the  governess's  illness  spoke 
plainly  in  every  tone  of  her  voice. 

"  May  I  inquire,  Miss  Silvester,  if  your  sufferings  are  re- 
lieved ?" 

"  I  am  no  better,  Lady  Lundie." 

"  I  beg  your  pardon  ?" 

"  I  said  I  was  no  better." 

"You  appear  to  be  able  to  stand  up.  When  /am  ill,  I  am 
not  so  fortunate.     I  am  obliged  to  lie  down." 

"  I  will  follow  your  example,  Lady  Lundie.  If  you  will  be 
so  good  as  to  excuse  me,  I  will  leave  you,  and  lie  down  in  my 
own  room." 

She  could  say  no  more.  The  interview  with  Geoffrey  had 
worn  her  out ;  there  was  no  spirit  left  in  her  to  resist  the  petty 
malice  of  the  woman,  after  bearing,  as  she  had  borne  it,  the 
bi'utish  indifference  of  the  man.  In  another  moment  the  hys- 
tei'ical  suffering  which  she  was  keeping  down  would  have 
forced  its  way  outward  in  tears.  Without  waiting  to  know 
whether  she  was  excused  or  not,  without  stopping  to  hear  a 
word  more,  she  left  the  summer-house. 

Lady  Lundie's  magnificent  black  eyes  opened  to  their  ut- 
most width,  and  blazed  with  their  most  dazzling  brightness. 
She  appealed  to  Sir  Patrick,  poised  easily  on  his  ivory  cane, 
and  looking  out  at  the  lawn-party,  the  picture  of  venerable  in- 
nocence. 

"After  what  I  have  already  told  you,  Sir  Patrick,  of  Miss 
Silvester's  conduct,  may  I  ask  whether  you  consider  that  pro- 
ceeding at  all  extraordinary?" 


MAN    AND    WIFE.  73 

The  old  gentleman  touched  the  spring  in  the  knob  of  his 
cane,  and  answered,  in  the  courtly  manner  of  the  old  school : 

"I  consider  no  proceeding  extraordinary,  Lady  Lundie, 
which  emanates  from  your  enchanting  sex." 

Pie  bowed,  and  took  his  pinch.  With  a  little  jaunty  flourish 
of  the  hand,  he  dusted  the  stray  grains  of  snuff  off  his  finger 
and  thumb,  and  looked  back  again  at  the  lawn-party,  and  be- 
came more  absorbed  in  the  diversions  of  his  young  friends 
than  ever. 

Lady  Lundie  stood  her  ground,  plainly  determined  to  force 
a  serious  expression  of  opinion  from  her  brother-in-law.  Be- 
fore she  could  speak  again,  Arnold  and  Blanche  appeared  to- 
gether at  the  bottom  of  the  steps.  "  And  when  does  the  dan- 
cing begin  ?"  inquired  Sir  Patrick,  advancing  to  meet  them, 
and  looking  as  if  he  felt  the  deepest  interest  in  a  speedy  set- 
tlement of  the  question. 

"The  very  thing  I  was  going  to  ask  mamma,"  returned 
Blanche.     "  Is  she  in  there  with  Anne  ?     Is  Anne  better  ?" 

Lady  Lundie  forthwith  appeared,  and  took  the  answer  to 
that  inquiry  on  herself. 

"  Miss  Silvester  has  retired  to  her  room.  Miss  Silvester  per- 
sists in  being  ill.  Have  you  noticed.  Sir  Patrick,  that  these 
half-bred  sort  of  people  are  almost  invariably  rude  when  they 
are  ill  ?" 

Blanche's  bright  face  flushed  up.  "If  you  think  Anne  a 
half-bred  person,  Lady  Lundie,  you  stand  alone  in  your  opinion. 
My  uncle  doesn't  agree  with  you,  I'm  sure." 

Sir  Patrick's  interest  in  the  first  quadrille  became  almost 
painful  to  see.  "2>o  tell  me,  my  dear,  when  is  the  dancing  go- 
ing to  begin  ?" 

"  The  sooner  the  better,"  interposed  Lady  Lundie ;  "  before 
Blanche  picks  another  quarrel  with  me  on  the  subject  of  Miss 
Silvester," 

Blanche  looked  at  her  uncle.  "  Begin  !  begin  !  Don't  lose 
time  !"  cried  the  ai'dent  Sir  Patrick,  pointing  toward  the  house 
with  his  cane.  "  Certainly,  uncle  !  Any  thing  that  you  wish  !" 
With  that  parting  shot  at  her  step-mother,  Blanche  withdrew. 
Arnold,  who  had  thus  far  waited  in  silence  at  the  foot  of  the 
steps,  looked  appealingly  at  Sir  Patrick,  The  train  Avhich  was 
to  take  him  to  his  newly-inherited  property  would  start  in  less 
than  an  hour ;  and  he  had  not  presented  himself  to  Blanche's 
guardian  in  the  character  of  Blanche's  suitor  yet !  Sir  Pat- 
rick's indifference  to  all  domestic  claims  on  him — claims  of 
persons  who  loved,  and  claims  of  persons  who  hated,  it  didn't 
matter  which  —  remained  perfectly  unassailable.  There  he 
stood,  poised  on  his  cane,  humming  an  old  Scotch  air.  And 
there  was  Lady  Lundie,  resolute  aot  to  leave  him  till  he  had 


Y4  MAN    AND    WIPE. 

seen  the  governess  with  Jier  eyes  and  judged  the  governo^-^ 
with  her  mind.  She  returned  to  the  charge — in  spite  of  Sir 
Patrick,  humming  at  the  top  of  the  steps,  and  of  Arnold,  wait- 
ing at  the  bottom.  (Her  enemies  said,  "  No  wonder  poor  Sir 
Thomas  died  in  a  few  months  after  his  marriage !"  And,  oh 
dear  me,  our  enemies  are  sometimes  right !) 

"  I  must  once  more  remind  you.  Sir  Patrick,  that  I  have  se- 
rious reason  to  doubt  whether  Miss  Silvester  is  a  fit  compan- 
ion for  Blanche.  My  governess  has  something  on  her  mind. 
She  has  fits  of  crying  in  private.  She  is  up  and  walking  about 
her  room  when  she  ought  to  be  asleep.  She  posts  her  own  let- 
ters—  and^  she  has  lately  been  excessively  insolent  to  Me. 
There  is  something  wrong.  I  must  take  some  steps  in  the 
matter — and  it  is  only  proper  that  I  should  do  so  with  your 
sanction,  as  head  of  the  family." 

"  Consider  me  as  abdicating  my  position,  Lady  Lundie,  in 
your  favor." 

"  Sir  Patrick,  I  beg  you  to  observe  that  I  am  speaking  seri- 
ously, and  that  I  expect  a  serious  reply." 

"  My  good  lady,  ask  me  for  any  thing  else  and  it  is  at  your 
service.  I  have  not  made  'a  serious  reply'  since  I  gave  uji 
practice  at  the  Scottish  Bar.  At  my  age,"  added  Sir  Patrick, 
cunningly  drifting  into  generalities,  "  nothing  is  serious — ex- 
cept Indigestion,  I  say,  with  the  philosopher,  'Life  is  a  come- 
dy to  those  who  think,  and  a  tragedy  to  those  who  feel.' "  He 
took  his  sister-in-law's  hand,  and  kissed  it.  "  Dear  Lady  Lun- 
die, why  feel  ?" 

Lady  Lundie,  who  had  never  "  felt "  in  her  life,  appeared 
perversely  determined  to  feel,  on  this  occasion.  She  v/as  of- 
fended— and  she  showed  it  plainly. 

"  When  you  are  next  called  on,  Sir  Patrick,  to  judge  of 
Miss  Silvester's  conduct,"  she  said, "  unless  I  am  entirely  mis- 
taken, you  will  find  yourself  compelled  to  consider  it  as  some- 
thing beyond  a  joke."  With  those  words,  she  walked  out  of 
the  summer-house — and  so  forwarded  Arnold's  interests  by 
leaving  Blanche's  guardian  alone  at  last. 

It  was  an  excellent  opportunity.  The  guests  were  safe  in 
the  house — there  was  no  interruption  to  be  feared.  Arnold 
showed  himself  Sir  Patrick  (perfectly  undisturbed  by  Lady 
Lundie's  parting  speech)  sat  down  in  the  summer-house,  with- 
out noticing  his  young  friend,  and  asked  himself  a  question 
founded  on  profound  observation  of  the  female  sex.  "  Were 
there  ever  two  women  yet  with  a  quarrel  between  them," 
thought  the  old  gentleman,  "  who  didn't  want  to  drag  a  man 
into  it  ?     Let  them  drag  wje  in,  if  thej^  can  !" 

Arnold  advanced  a  step,  and  modestly  announced  himself 
"  I  hope  I  am  not  in  the  way,  Sir  Patrick  ?" 


MAN   AND   WIFB. 


in 


*'  In  the  way !  of  course  not !  Bless  my  soul,  how  serious 
the  boy  looks !  Are  1/021  going  to  appeal  to  me  as  the  head  of 
the  family  next?" 

It  was  exactly  what  Arnold  was  about  to  do.  But  it  was 
plain  that  if  he  admitted  it  just  then  Sir  Patrick  (for  some  un- 
intelligible reason)  would  decline  to  listen  to  him.  He  an- 
swered cautiously,  "  I  asked  leave  to  consult  you  in  private, 
sir ;  and  you  kindly  said  you  would  give  me  the  opportunity 
before  I  left  Windygates?" 

"Ay!  ay!  to  be  sure.  I  remember.  We  were  both  en- 
gaged in  the  serious  business  of  croquet  at  the  time — and  it 
was  doubtful  which  of  us  did  that  business  most  clumsily. 
Well,  here  is  the  opportunity ;  and  here  am  I,  with  all  my 
worldly  experience,  at  your  service.  I  have  only  one  caution 
to  give  you.  Don't  appeal  to  me  as  '  the  head  of  the  family.' 
My  resignation  is  in  Lady  Lundie's  hands." 

He  was,  as  usual,  half  in  jest,  half  in  eai'nest.  The  wry  twist 
of  humor  showed  itself  at  the  corners  of  his  lips.  Arnold  was 
at  a  loss  how  to  approach  Sir  Patrick  on  the  subject  of  his 
niece  without  reminding  him  of  his  domestic  responsibilities 
on  one  hand,  and  without  setting  himself  up  as  a  target  for  the 
shafts  of  Sir  Patrick's  wit  on  the  other.  In  this  difficulty,  he 
committed  a  mistake  at  the  outset.     He  hesitated. 

"Don't  hurry  yourself,"  said  Sir  Patrick.  "Collect  your 
ideas.     I  can  wait !     I  can  wait !" 

Arnold  collected  his  ideas — and  committed  a  second  mis- 
take. He  determined  on  feeling  his  way  cautiously  at  first. 
Under  the  circumstances  (and  with  such  a  man  as  he  had  now 
to  deal  with),  it  was  perhaps  the  rashest  resolution  at  which 
he  could  possibly  have  arrived — it  was  the  mouse  attempting 
to  outmanoeuvre  the  cat. 

"  You  have  been  very  kind,  sir,  in  offering  me  the  benefit 
of  your  experience,"  he  began.     "I  want  a  word  of  advice." 

"  Suppose  you  take  it  sitting  ?"  suggested  Sir  Patrick. 
"Get  a  chair."  His  sharp  eyes  followed  Arnold  with  an  ex- 
pression of  malicious  enjoyment.  "Wants  my  advice?"  he 
thought.  "  The  young  humbug  wants  nothing  of  the  sort — 
he  wants  my  niece." 

Arnold  sat  down  under  Sir  Pati'ick's  eye,  with  a  well-found- 
ed suspicion  that  he  was  destined  to  suffer,  before  he  got  up 
again,  under  Sir  Patrick's  tongue. 

"  I  am  only  a  young  man,"  he  went  on,  moving  uneasily  in 
his  chair ;  "  and  I  am  beginning  a  new  life — " 

"Any  thing  wrong  with  the  chair?"  asked  Sir  Patrick. 
"Begin  your  new  life  comfortably,  and  get  another." 

"There's  nothing  wrong  with  the  chair,  sir.     Would  you — " 

"  Would  I  keep  the  chair,  in  that  case  ?     Certainly." 


76  SUIT  AND   WIFB. 

"  I  mean,  would  you  advise  me — " 

"My  good  fellow,  I'm  waiting  to  advise  you.  (Pra  sure 
there's  something  wrong  with  that  chair.  Why  be  obstinate 
about  it?     Why  not  get  another?") 

"  Please  don't  notice  the  chair,  Sir  Patrick — you  put  me  out, 
I  want — in  short — perhaps  it's  a  carious  question — " 

"  I  can't  say  till  I  have  heard  it,"  remarked  Sir  Patrick. 
"However,  we  will  admit  it,  for  form's  sake,  if  you  like.  Say 
it's  a  curious  question.  Or  let  us  express  it  more  strongly,  if 
that  will  help  you.  Say  it's  the  most  extraordinary  question 
that  ever  was  put,  since  the  beginning  of  the  world,  from  one 
human  being  to  another." 

"  It's  this !"  Arnold  burst  out,  desperately.  "  I  want  to  be 
married !" 

"  That  isn't  a  question,"  objected  Sir  Patrick.  "  It's  an  as- 
sertion. You  say,  I  want  to  be  married.  And  I  say,  Just  so  \ 
And  there's  an  end  of  it." 

Arnold's  head  began  to  whirl.  "  Would  you  advise  me  to 
get  married,  sir?"  he  said,  piteously.     "  That's  what  I  meant." 

"  Oh !  That's  the  object  of  the  present  interview,  is  it  ? 
Would  I  advise  you  to  marry,  eh  ?" 

(Having  caught  the  mouse  by  this  time,  the  cat  lifted  his 
paw  and  let  the  luckless  little  creature  breathe  again.  Sir 
Patrick's  manner  suddenly  freed  itself  from  any  slight  signs 
of  impatience  which  it  might  have  hitherto  shown,  and  became 
as  pleasantly  easy  and  confidential  as  a  manner  could  be.  He 
touched  the  knob  of  his  cane,  and  helped  himself,  with  infinite 
zest  and  enjoyment,  to  a  pinch  of  snuff.) 

"  Would  I  advise  you  to  marry  ?"  repeated  Sir  Patrick. 
"  Two  courses  are  open  to  us,  Mr.  Arnold,  in  treating  that 
question.  We  may  put  it  briefly,  or  we  may  put  it  at  great 
length.     I  am  for  putting  it  briefly.     What  do  you  say  ?" 

"  What  yoii  say,  Sir  Patrick." 

"Very  good.  May  I  begin  by  making  an  inquiry  relating 
to  your  past  life  ?" 

"Certainly!"" 

"  Very  good  again.  When  you  were  in  the  merchant  service, 
did  you  ever  have  any  experience  in  buying  provisions  ashore  ?" 

Arnold  stared.  If  any  relation  existed  between  that  ques- 
tion and  the  subject  in  hand  it  was  an  impenetrable  relation  to 
him.     He  answered,  in  unconcealed  bewilderment, 

"Plenty  of  experience,  sir." 

"  I'm  coming  to  the  point,"  pursued  Sir  Patrick.  "  Don't  be 
astonished.  I'm  coming  to  the  point.  What  did  you  think  of 
your  moist  sugar  when  you  bought  it  at  the  grocer's  ?" 

"  Think  ?"  repeated  Arnold.  "  Why  I  thought  it  was  moist 
sugar,  to  be  sure  !" 


I 


MAN  AND   WIFE.  11 

"  Marry,  by  all  means  !"  cried  Sir  Patrick.     "  You  are  one 

of  the  few  men  who  can  try  that  experiment  with  a  fair  chance 
of  success." 

The  suddenness  of  the  answer  fairly  took  away  Arnold's 
breath.  There  was  something  perfectly  electric  in  the  brevity 
of  his  venerable  friend.     He  stared  harder  than  ever. 

"  Don't  you  understand  me  ?"  asked  Sir  Patrick. 

"  I  don't  understand  what  the  moist  sugar  has  got  to  do  with 
it,  sir." 

*'  You  don't  see  that  ?" 

«  Not  a  bit !" 

"  Then  I'll  show  you,"  said  Sir  Patrick,  crossing  his  legs,  and 
setting  in  comfortably  for  a  good  talk.  "  You  go  to  the  tea- 
shop  and  get  your  moist  sugar.  You  take  it  on  the  under- 
standing that  it  is  moist  sugar.  But  it  isn't  any  thing  of  the 
sort.  It's  a  compound  of  adulterations  made  up  to  look  like 
sugar.  You  shut  your  eyes  to  that  awkward  fact,  and  swallow 
your  adulterated  mess  in  various  articles  of  food ;  and  you  and 
your  sugar  get  on  together  in  that  way  as  well  as  you  can. 
Do  you  follow  me,  so  far?" 

Yes,  Arnold  (quite  in  the  dark)  followed,  so  far. 

"  Very  good,"  pursued  Sir  Patrick.  "  You  go  to  the  mar- 
riage shop,  and  get  a  wife.  You  take  her  on  the  understand- 
ing— let  us  say — that  she  has  lovely  yellow  hair,  that  she  has 
an  exquisite  complexion,  that  her  figure  is  the  perfection  of 
plumpness,  and  that  she  is  just  tall  enough  to  carry  the  plump- 
ness off.  You  bring  her  home,  and  you  discover  that  it's  the 
old  story  of  the  sugar  over  again.  Your  wife  is  an  adulterated 
article.  Her  lovely  yellow  hair  is — dye.  Her  exqiiisite  skin 
is — pearl  powder.  Her  plumpness  is — padding.  And  three 
inches  of  her  height  are  —  in  the  boot-maker's  heels.  Shut 
your  eyes,  and  swallow  your  adulterated  wife  as  you  swallow 
your  adulterated  sugar — and,  I  tell  you  again,  you  are  one  of 
the  few  men  who  can  try  the  marriage  experiment  with  a  fair 
chance  of  success." 

With  that  be  uncrossed  his  legs  again,  and  looked  hard  at 
Arnold.  Ainiold  read  the  lesson,  at  last,  in  the  right  way.  He 
gave  up  the  hopeless  attempt  to  circumvent  Sir  Patrick,  and — 
come  what  might  of  it — dashed  at  a  direct  allusion  to  Sir  Pat- 
rick's niece. 

"That  may  be  all  very  true,  sir,  of  some  young  ladies,"  he 
said.  "  There  is  one  I  know  of,  who  is  neai'ly  related  to  you, 
and  who  doesn't  deserve  what  you  have  said  of  the  rest  of 
them." 

This  was  coming  to  the  point.  Sir  Patrick  showed  his  ap- 
proval of  Arnold's  frankness  by  coming  to  the  point  himself, 
as  readily  as  his  own  whimsical  humor  would  let  him. 


78  MAN    AND    WIPE. 

"  Is  this  female  phenomenon  my  niece  ?"  he  inquired. 

"  Yes,  Sir  Patrick." 

"  May  I  ask  how  you  know  that  my  niece  is  not  an  adulter- 
ated article,  like  the  rest  of  them  ?" 

Arnold's  indignation  loosened  the  last  restraints  that  tied 
Arnold's  tongue.  He  exploded  in  the  three  words  which 
mean  three  volumes  in  every  circulating  library  in  the  king- 
dom. 

"  I  love  her." 

Sir  Patrick  sat  back  in  his  chair,  and  stretched  out  his  legs 
luxuriously. 

"That's  the  most  convincing  answer  I  ever  heard  in  my 
life,"  he  said. 

"  Vm  in  earnest !"  cried  Arnold,  reckless  by  this  time  of  ev- 
ery consideration  but  one.  "  Put  me  to  the  test,  sir !  put  me 
to  the  test !" 

"  Oh,  very  well.  The  test  is  easily  put."  He  looked  at  Ar- 
nold, with  the  irrepressible  humor  twinkling  merrily  in  his 
eyes,  and  twitching  sharply  at  the  corners  of  his  lips.  "  My 
niece  has  a  beautiful  complexion.  Do  you  believe  in  her  com- 
plexion ?" 

"  There's  a  beautiful  sky  above  our  heads,"  returned  Arnold. 
"  I  believe  in  the  sky." 

"  Do  you '?"  retorted  Sir  Patrick.  "  You  were  evidently 
never  caught  in  a  shower.  My  niece  has  an  immense  quantity 
of  hair.     Are  you  convinced  that  it  all  grows  on  her  head?" 

"I  defy  any  other  woman's  head  to  produce  the  like  of  it!" 

"My  dear  Arnold,  you  greatly  unden-ate  the  existing  re- 
sources of  the  trade  in  hair!  Look  into  the  shop-windows. 
When  you  next  go  to  London,  pray  look  into  the  shop-win- 
dows. In  the  mean  time,  what  do  you  think  of  my  niece's 
figure?" 

"  Oh,  come !  there  can't  be  any  doubt  about  that  I  Any 
man,  with  eyes  in  his  head,  can  see  it's  the  loveliest  figure  in 
the  world." 

Sir  Patrick  laughed  softly,  and  crossed  his  legs  again. 

"  My  good  fellow,  of  coui-se  it  is !  The  loveliest  figure  in 
the  world  is  the  commonest  thing  in  the  world.  At  a  rough 
guess,  there  are  forty  ladies  at  this  lawn-party.  Every  one 
of  them  possesses  a  beautiful  figure.  It  varies  in  price,  and 
when  it's  particularly  seductive,  you  may  swear  it  comes  from 
Paris.  Why,  how  you  stare !  When  I  asked  you  what  you 
thought  of  my  niece's  figure,  I  meant — how  much  of  it  comes 
from  Nature,  and  how  much  of  it  comes  from  the  Shop  ?  I 
don't  know,  mind !     Do  you  ?" 

"  I'll  take  my  oath  to  every  inch  of  it  i" 

"Shop?" 


MAN   AND   WIPE.  79 

«  Nature !" 

Sir  Patrick  rose  to  his  feet ;  his  satirical  humor  was  silenced 

at  last. 

"  If  ever  I  have  a  son,"  he  thought  to  himself,  "  that  son 
shall  go  to  sea !"  He  took  Arnold's  arm,  as  a  preliminary  to 
putting  an  end  to  Arnold's  suspense.  "If  I  can  be  serious 
about  any  thing,"  he  resumed,  "  it's  time  to  be  serious  with 
you.  I  am  convinced  of  the  sincerity  of  your  attachment. 
All  I  know  of  you  is  in  your  favor,  and  your  birth  and  uosi- 
tion  are  beyond  dispute.  If  you  have  Blanche's  consent,  vou 
have  mine."  Arnold  attempted  to  express  his  gratitude.  Sir 
Patrick,  declining  to  hear  him,  went  on.  "And  remember  tuis, 
in  the  future.  When  you  next  want  any  thing  that  I  can  srive 
you,  ask  for  it  plainly.  Don't  attempt  to  mystify  me  on  che 
next  occasion,  and  I  will  promise,  on  my  side,  not  to  mystify 
you.  There,  that's  understood.  Now  about  this  journey  of 
yours  to  see  your  estate.  Property  has  its  duties,  Master  Ar- 
nold, as  well  as  its  rights.  The  time  is  fast  coming  when  its 
rights  will  be  disputed,  if  its  duties  are  not  performed.  I  have 
got  a  new  interest  in  you,  and  I  mean  to  see  that  you  do  youv 
duty.  It's  settled  you  are  to  leave  Windygates  to-day.  Is  it 
arranged  how  you  are  to  go  ?" 

"Yes,  Sir  Patrick.  Lady  Lundie  has  kindly  ordered  the  gig 
to  take  me  to  the  station,  in  time  for  the  next  train." 

"  When  are  you  to  be  ready  ?" 

Arnold  looked  at  his  watch.     "  In  a  quarter  of  an  hour." 

"  Very  good.  Mind  you  are  ready.  Stop  a  minute !  you 
will  have  plenty  of  time  to  speak  to  Blanche  when  I  have 
done  with  you.  You  don't  appear  to  me  to  be  sufficiently 
anxious  about  seeing  your  own  property." 

"  I  am  not  vei'y  anxious  to  leave  Blanche,  sir — that's  the 
truth  of  it." 

"  Never  mind  Blanche.  Blanche  is  not  business.  They  both 
begin  with  a  B,  and  that's  the  only  connection  between  them. 
I  hear  you  have  got  one  of  the  finest  houses  in  this  part  of 
Scotland.     How  long  are  you  going  to  stay  in  it  ?" 

"  I  have  arranged  (as  I  have  already  told  you,  sir)  to  return 
to  Windygates  the  day  after  to-morrow." 

"  What !  Here  is  a  man  with  a  palace  waiting  to  receive 
him — and  he  is  only  going  to  stop  one  clear  day  in  it !" 

"  I  am  not  going  to  stop  in  it  at  all,  Sir  Patrick — I  am  going 
to  stay  with  the  steward.  I'm  only  wanted  to  be  present  to- 
morrow at  a  dinner  to  my  tenants — and,  when  tihat's  over, 
there's  nothing  in  the  world  to  prevent  my  coming  back  here. 
The  stewaM  himself  told  me  so  in  his  last  letter." 

"  Oh,  if  the  steward  told  you  so,  of  course  there  is  nothing 
more  to  be  said !" 


80  MAN  AND  WIFK. 

"  Don't  object  to  my  coming  back  !  pray  don't,  Sir  Patrick ! 
I'll  promise  to  live  in  my  new  house,  when  I  have  got  Blanche 
to  live  in  it  with  me.  If  you  won't  mind,  I'll  go  and  tell  her 
at  once  that  it  all  belongs  to  her  as  well  as  to  me." 

"  Gently !  gently !  you  talk  as  if  you  were  married  to  her 
already !" 

"  It's  as  good  as  done,  sir !  Where's  the  difficulty  in  the 
way  now?" 

As  he  asked  the  question  the  shadow  of  some  third  person, 
advancing  from  the  side  of  the  summer-house,  was  thrown  for- 
ward on  the  open  sunlit  space  at  the  top  of  the  steps.  In  a 
moment  more  the  shadow  was  followed  by  the  substance — in 
the  shape  of  a  groom  in  his  riding  livery.  The  man  was  plain- 
ly a  stranger  to  the  place.  He  started,  and  touched  his  hat, 
when  he  saw  the  two  gentlemen  in  the  summer-house. 

"  What  do  you  want  ?"  asked  Sir  Patrick. 

" I  beg  your  pardon,  sir;  I  was  sent  by  my  master — " 

"Who  is  your  master?" 

"The  Honorable  Mr.  Delamayn,  sir." 

"  Do  you  mean  Mr.  Geoffrey  Delamayn  ?"  asked  Arnold. 

"  No,  sir.  Mr.  Geoffrey's  brother — Mr.  Julius.  I  have  rid- 
den over  from  the  house,  sir,  with  a  message  from  my  master 
to  Mr.  Geoffrey." 

"Can't  you  find  him?" 

"  They  told  me  I  should  find  him  hereabouts,  sir.  But  I'm 
a  stranger,  and  don't  rightly  know  where  to  look."  He  stop- 
ped, and  took  a  card  out  of  his  pocket.  "My  master  said  it 
was  very  important  I  should  deliver  this  immediately.  Would 
you  be  pleased  to  tell  me,  gentlemen,  if  you  happen  to  know 
where  Mr.  Geoffrey  is  ?" 

Arnold  turned  to  Sir  Patrick.  "  I  haven't  seen  him.  Have 
you  ?" 

"  I've  smelled  him,"  answered  Sir  Patrick,  "  ever  since  I  have 
been  in  the  summer-house.  There  is  a  detestable  taint  of  to- 
bacco in  the  air — suggestive  (disagreeably  suggestive  to  my 
mind)  of  your  friend,  Mr.  Delamayn." 

Arnold  laughed,  and  stepped  outside  the  summer-house. 

"  If  you  are  right,  Sir  Patrick,  we  will  find  him  at  once," 
He  looked  around,  and  shouted,  "  Geoffrey !" 

A  voice  from  the  rose-garden  shouted  back,  "  Halloo  I" 

"  You're  wanted.     Come  here  !" 

Geoffrey  appeared,  sauntering  doggedly,  with  his  pipe  'u  his 
mouth,  and  his  hands  in  his  pockets. 

"  Who  wants  me  ?" 

"  A  groom — from  your  brother." 

That  answer  appeared  to  electrify  the  loungmg  and  lazy 
athlete.      Geoffrey  hurried,  with  eager  steps,  to  the  summer- 


I       MAN  AND  WIFE.  81 

house.     He  addressed  the  groom  before  the  man  had  time  to 
speak.     With  horror  and  dismay  in  his  face,  he  exclaimed : 

"  By  Jupiter  !  Ratcatcher  has  relapsed  !" 

Sir  Patrick  and  Arnold  looked  at  each  other  in  blank  amaze- 
ment. 

"  The  best  horse  in  my  brother's  stables !"  cried  Geoffrey, 
explaining,  and  appealing  to  them,  in  a  breath.  "  I  left  writ- 
ten directions  with  the  coachman  ;  I  measured  out  his  physic 
for  three  days ;  I  bled  him,"  said  Geoffrey,  in  a  voice  broken 
by  emotion — "  I  bled  him  myself,  last  night." 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  sir — "  began  the  groom. 

"  What's  the  use  of  begging  mj'^  pardon  ?  You're  a  pack  oi 
infernal  fools  !  Where's  your  horse  ?  I'll  ride  back,  and  break 
every  bone  in  the  coachman's  skin  !     Where's  your  horse  ?" 

"  If  you  please,  sir,  it  isn't  Ratcatcher.  Ratcatcher's  all 
right." 

"  Ratcatcher's  all  right  ?    Then  what  the  devil  is  it  ?" 

"  It's  a  message,  sir." 

"About  what?" 

"About  my  lord." 

"Oh  !  About  ray  father?"  He  took  out  his  handkerchief, 
and  passed  it  over  his  forehead,  with  a  deep  gasp  of  relief  "  I 
thought  it  was  Ratcatcher,"  he  said,  looking  at  Arnold,  with 
a  smile.  He  put  his  pipe  into  his  mouth,  and  rekindled  the 
dying  ashes  of  the  tobacco.  "  Well,"  he  went  on,  when  the 
pipe  was  in  working  order,  and  his  voice  was  composed  again, 
"  what's  up  with  my  father  ?" 

*'  A  telegram  from  London,  sir.     Bad  news  of  my  lord." 

The  man  produced  his  master's  card. 

Geoffrey  read  on  it  (written  in  his  brother's  handwriting) 
these  words : 

"  I  have  only  a  moment  to  scribble  a  line  on  my  card.  Our 
father  is  dangerously  ill — his  lawyer  has  been  sent  for.  Come 
with  me  to  London  by  the  first  train.     Meet  at  the  junction." 

Without  a  word  to  any  one  of  the  three  persons  present,  all 
silently  looking  at  him,  Geoffrey  consulted  his  watch.  Anne 
had  told  him  to  wait  half  an  hour,  and  to  assume  that  she  had 
gone  if  he  failed  to  hear  from  her  in  that  time.  The  interval 
had  passed — and  no  communication  of  any  sort  had  reached 
him.  The  flight  from  the  house  had  been  safely  accomplished. 
Anne  Silvester  was,  at  that  moment,  on  her  way  to  the  mount- 
ain inn. 
6 


S2  MATSr  AHiD  WIF& 


CHAPTER  THE  SEVENTH. 

THE    DEBT. 

Abnold  was  the  first  who  broke  the  silence. 

"  Is  your  father  seriously  ill  ?"  he  asked. 

Geoffrey  answered  by  handing  him  the  card. 

Sir  Patrick,  who  had  stood  apart  (while  the  question  of  Rat- 
catcher's reliapse  was  under  discussion)  sardonically  studying 
the  manners  and  customs  of  modern  English  youth,  now  came 
forward,  and  took  his  part  in  the  proceedings.  Lady  Lundie 
herself  must  have  acknowledged  that  he  spoke  and  acted  as 
became  the  head  of  the  family,  on  this  occasion. 

"  Am  I  right  in  supposing  that  Mr.  Delamayn's  father  is 
dangerously  ill  ?"  he  asked,  addressing  himself  to  Arnold. 

"  Dangerously  ill,  in  London,"  Arnold  answered.  "  Geoffrey 
must  leave  Windygates  with  me.  The  train  I  am  traveling 
by  meets  the  train  his  brother  is  traveling  by,  at  the  junction. 
I  shall  leave  him  at  the  second  station  from  here." 

"Didn't  you  tell  me  that  Lady  Lundie  was  going  to  send 
you  to  the  railway  in  a  gig  ?" 

"Yes." 

"  If  the  servant  drives,  there  will  be  three  of  you — and  there 
will  be  no  room." 

"  We  had  better  ask  for  some  other  vehicle,"  suggested  Ar- 
nold. 

Sir  Patrick  looked  at  his  watch.  There  was  no  time  to 
change  the  carriage.  He  turned  to  Geoffrey.  "Can  you 
drive,  Mr.  Delamayn?" 

Still  impenetrably  silent,  Geoffrey  replied  by  a  nod  of  the 
head. 

Without  noticing  the  unceremonious  manner  in  which  he 
had  been  answered,  Sir  Patrick  went  on : 

"  In  that  case,  you  can  leave  the  gig  in  charge  of  the  station- 
master.  I'll  tell  the  servant  that  he  will  not  be  wanted  to 
drive." 

"  Let  me  save  you  the  trouble.  Sir  Patrick,"  said  Arnold. 

Sir  Patrick  declined,  by  a  gesture.  He  turned  again,  with 
undiminished  courtesy,  to  Geoffrey.  "  It  is  one  of  the  duties 
of  hospitality,  Mr.  Delamayn,  to  hasten  your  departure,  under 
these  sad  circumstances.  Lady  Lundie  is  engaged  with  her 
guests.     I  will  see  myself  that  there  is  no  unnecessary  delay 


MAN   AND   WIFE.  88 

in  sending  you  to  the  station."  He  bowed — and  left  the  sum- 
mer-house. 

Arnold  said  a  word  of  sympathy  to  his  friend,  when  they 
were  alone. 

"  I  am  sorry  for  this,  Geoffrey.  I  hope  and  trust  you  will 
get  to  London  in  time." 

He  stopped.  There  was  something  in  Geoffrey's  face — a 
strange  mixture  of  doubt  and  bewilderment,  of  annoyance  and 
hesitation — which  was  not  to  be  accounted  for  as  the  natural 
result  of  the  news  that  he  had  received.  His  color  shifted 
and  changed ;  he  picked  fretfully  at  his  finger-nails ;  he  looked 
at  Arnold  as  if  he  was  going  to  speak — and  then  looked  away 
again,  in  silence. 

"  Is  there  something  amiss,  Geoffrey,  besides  this  bad  news 
about  your  father  ?"  asked  Arnold. 

"  I'm  in  the  devil's  own  mess,"  was  the  answer. 

"  Can  I  do  any  thing  to  help  you?" 

Instead  of  making  a  direct  reply,  Geoffrey  lifted  his  mighty 
hand,  and  gave  Arnold  a  friendly  slap  on  the  shoulder  which 
shook  him  from  head  to  foot.  Arnold  steadied  himself,  and 
waited — wondering  what  was  coming  next. 

"  I  say,  old  fellow !"  said  Geoffrey. 

"  Yes." 

"  Do  you  remember  when  the  boat  turned  keel  upward  in 
Lisbon  Harbor?" 

Arnold  started.  If  he  could  have  called  to  mind  his  first 
interview  in  the  summer-house  with  his  father's  old  friend,  he 
might  have  remembered  Sir  Patrick's  prediction  that  he  would 
sooner  or  later  pay,  with  interest,  the  debt  he  owed  to  the 
man  who  had  saved  his  life.  As  it  was,  his  memory  reverted 
at  a  bound  to  the  time  of  the  boat  accident.  In  the  ardor  of 
his  gratitude  and  the  innocence  of  his  heart,  he  almost  re- 
sented his  friend's  question  as  a  reproach  which  he  had  not 
deserved. 

"  Do  you  think  I  can  ever  forget,"  he  cried,  warmly,  "  that 
you  swam  ashore  with  me  and  saved  my  life  ?" 

Geoffrey  ventured  a  step  nearer  to  the  object  that  he  had  m 
view. 

"  One  good  turn  deserves  another,"  he  said ;  "  don't  it  ?" 

Arnold  took  his  hand.  "  Only  tell  me  !"  he  eagerly  rejoined, 
^'  only  tell  me  what  I  can  do !" 

"You  are  going  to-day  to  see  your  new  place,  ain't  you  ?'* 

"Yes." 

"Can  you  put  off  going  till  to-morrow?" 

"  If  it's  any  thing  serious — of  course  I  can  !" 

Geoffrey  looked  round  at  the  entrance  to  the  summer-house, 
to  make  sure  that  they  were  alone. 


84  MAN    AND    WIFE. 

"  You  know  the  governess  here,  don't  you  ?"  he  said  in  a 
whisper. 

"  Miss  Silvester  ?" 

"  Yes.  I've  got  into  a  little  difficulty  with  Miss  Silvester. 
And  there  isn't  a  living  soul  I  can  ask  to  help  me  but  you?'' 

"  You  know  I  will  help  you.     What  is  it  ?" 

"  It  isn't  so  easy  to  say.  Never  mind — you're  no  saint  either, 
are  you  ?  You'll  keep  it  a  secret,  of  course  ?  Look  here  !  I've 
acted  like  an  infernal  fool.  I've  gone  and  got  the  girl  into  ft 
scrape — " 

Arnold  drew  back,  suddenly  understanding  him. 

"  Good  heavens,  Geoffrey  !     You  don't  mean — " 

"I  do !  Wait  a  bit — that's  not  the  worst  of  it.  She  has 
left  the  house." 

"  Left  the  house  ?" 

"  Left,  for  good  and  all.     She  can't  come  back  again." 

"  Why  not>' 

"  Because  she's  written  to  her  missus.  Women  (hang  'em !) 
never  do  these  things  by  halves.  She's  left  a  letter  to  say 
she's  privately  married,  and  gone  off  to  her  husband.  Her 
husband  is — Me.  Not  that  I'm  married  to  her  yet,  you  un- 
derstand. I  have  only  promised  to  marry  her.  She  has  gone 
on  first  (on  the  sly)  to  a  place  four  miles  from  this.  And  we 
settled  I  was  to  follow,  and  marry  her  privately  this  afternoon. 
That's  out  of  the  question  now.  While  she's  expecting  me  at 
the  inn  I  shall  be  bowling  along  to  London.  Somebody  must 
tell  her  what  has  happened — or  she'll  play  the  devil,  and  the 
whole  business  will  burst  up.  I  can't  trust  any  of  the  people 
here.     I'm  done  for,  old  chap,  unless  you  help  me." 

Arnold  lifted  his  hands  in  dismay.  "  It's  the  most  dreadful 
situation,  Geoffrey,  I  ever  heard  of  in  my  life  !" 

Geoffrey  thoroughly  agreed  with  him.  "  Enough  to  knock 
a  man  over,"  he  said,  "  isn't  it  ?  I'd  give  something  for  a  drink 
of  beer."  He  produced  his  everlasting  pipe,  from  sheer  force 
of  habit.     "  Got  a  match  ?"  he  asked. 

Arnold's  mind  was  too  preoccupied  to  notice  the  question. 

"I  hope  you  won't  think  I'm  making  light  of  your  fither's 
illness,"  he  said,  earnestly.  "  But  it  seems  to  me — I  must  say 
it — it  seems  to  me  that  the  poor  girl  has  the  first  claim  on 
you." 

Geoffrey  looked  at  him  in  surly  amazement, 

"The  first  claim  on  me?  Do  you  think  I'm  going  to  risk 
being  cut  out  of  my  father's  will  ?  Not  for  the  best  woman 
that  ever  put  on  a  petticoat !" 

Arnold's  admiration  of  his  friend  was  the  solidly-founded 
admiration  of  many  years ;  admiration  for  a  man  who  could 
row,  boxj  wrestle,  jump — above  all,  who  could  swim — as  fevy 


MAN   AND   WrPB.  85 

other  men  could  perform  those  exercises  in  contemporary  En- 
gland. But  that  answer  shook  his  faith.  Only  for  the  moment 
— unhappily  for  Arnold,  only  for  the  moment. 

"  You  know  best,"  he  returned,  a  little  coldly.  "  What  can 
I  do?" 

Geoffrey  took  his  arm — roughly,  as  he  took  every  thing ; 
but  in  a  companionable  and  confidential  way. 

"  Go,  like  a  good  fellow,  and  tell  her  what  has  happened. 
We'll  start  from  here  as  if  we  were  both  going  to  the  railway ; 
and  I'll  drop  you  at  the  foot-path,  in  the  gig.  You  can  get  on 
to  your  own  place  afterward  by  the  evening  train.  It  puts 
you  to  no  inconvenience ;  and  it's  doing  the  kind  thing  by  an 
old  friend.  There's  no  risk  of  being  found  out.  I'm  to  drive, 
remember!  There's  no  servant  with  us,  old  boy,  to  notice 
and  tell  tales." 

Even  Arnold  began  to  see  dimly  by  this  time  that  he  was 
likely  to  pay  his  debt  of  obligation  with  interest — as  Sir  Pat- 
rick had  foretold. 

"  What  am  I  to  say  to  her  ?"  he  asked.  "  I'm  bound  to  do 
all  I  can  do  to  help  you,  and  I  will.     But  what  am  I  to  say  ?" 

It  was  a  natural  question  to  put.  It  was  not  an  easy  ques- 
tion to  answer.  What  a  man,  under  given  muscular  circum- 
stances, could  do,  no  person  living  knew  better  than  Geoffrey 
Delamayn.  Of  what  a  man,  under  given  social  circumstances, 
could  say,  no  person  living  knew  less. 

"  Say  ?"  he  repeated.  "  Look  here !  say  I'm  half  distracted, 
and  all  that.  And — wait  a  bit — tell  her  to  stop  where  she  is 
till  I  write  to  her." 

Arnold  hesitated.  Absolutely  ignorant  of  that  low  and 
limited  form  of  knowledge  which  is  called  "  knowledge  of  the 
world,"  his  inbred  delicacy  of  mind  revealed  to  him  the  seri- 
ous difficulty  of  the  position  which  his  friend  was  asking  him 
to  occupy  as  plainly  as  if  he  was  looking  at  it  through  the 
warily-gathered  experience  of  society  of  a  man  of  twice  his 
age. 

"  Can't  you  write  to  her  now,  Geoffrey  ?"  he  asked. 

"  What's  the  good  of  that  ?" 

"  Consider  for  a  minute,  and  you  will  see.  You  have  trust- 
ed me  with  a  very  awkward  secret.  I  may  be  wrong — I  nev- 
er was  mixed  up  in  such  a  matter  before — but  to  present  ray- 
self  to  this  lady  as  your  messenger  seems  exposing  her  to  a 
dreadful  humiliation.  Am  I  to  go  and  tell  her  to  her  face  : 
'  I  know  what  you  are  hiding  from  the  knowledge  of  all  the 
world ;'  and  is  she  to  be  expected  to  endure  it?" 

"  Bosh !"  said  Geoffrey.  "  They  can  endure  a  deal  more 
than  you  think  for.  I  wish  you  had  heard  how  she  bullied 
me,  in  this  very  place.     My  good  fellow,  you  don't  understan4 


8tt  MAN   AND   WIPB. 

women.     The  grand  secret,  in  dealing  with  a  woman,  is  to  tak« 
her  as  yo«  take  a  cat,  by  the  scuff  of  the  neck — " 

"I  can't  face  her — unless  you  will  help  me  by  breaking  the 
thing  to  her  first.  I'll  stick  at  no  sacrifice  to  serve  you ;  but 
— hang  it ! — make  allowances,  Geoffrey,  for  the  difiiculty  you 
are  putting  me  in.  I  am  almost  a  stranger;  I  don't  know 
how  Miss  Silvester  may  receive  me,  before  I  can  open  my  lips." 

Those  last  words  touched  the  question  on  its  practical  side. 
The  matter-of-fact  view  of  the  difiiculty,  was  a  view  which 
Geoffrey  instantly  recognized  and  understood. 

"She  has  the  devil's  own  temper,"  he  said.  "There's  no 
denying  that.  Perhaps  I'd  better  write.  Have  we  time  to  go 
into  the  house  ?" 

"  No.  The  house  is  full  of  people,  and  we  haven't  a  minute 
to  spare.    Write  at  once,  and  write  here.    I  have  got  a  pencil." 

"  What  am  I  to  write  on  ?" 

"Any  thing — your  brother's  card." 

Geoffrey  took  the  pencil  which  Arnold  offered  to  him,  and 
looked  at  the  card.  The  lines  his  brother  had  written  covered 
it.  There  was  no  room  left.  He  felt  in  his  pocket,  and  pro- 
duced a  letter — the  letter  which  Anne  had  referred  to  at  the 
interview  between  them ;  the  letter  which  she  had  written  to 
insist  on  his  attending  the  lawn-party  at  Windygates. 

"This  will  do,"  he  said.  "It's  one  of  Anne's  own  letters  to 
me.  There's  room  on  the  fourth  page.  If  I  write,"  he  added, 
turning  suddenly  on  Arnold, "  you  promise  to  take  it  to  her  ? 
Your  hand  on  the  bargain  !" 

He  held  out  the  hand  which  had  saved  Arnold's  life  in  Lis- 
bon Harbor,  and  received  Arnold's  promise,  in  remembrance 
of  that  time, 

"  All  right,  old  fellow.  I  can  tell  you  how  to  find  the  place 
as  we  go  along  in  the  gig.  By-the-bye,  there's  one  thing  that's 
rather  important.     I'd  better  mention  it  while  I  think  of  it." 

"  What  is  that  ?" 

"  You  mustn't  present  yourself  at  the  inn  in  your  own  name ; 
and  you  mustn't  ask  for  her  by  her  name." 

«  Who  am  I  to  ask  for  ?" 

"It's  a  little  awkward.  She  has  gone  there  as  a  married 
woman,  in  case  they're  particular  about  taking  her  in — " 

"  I  understand.     Go  on." 

"  And  she  has  planned  to  tell  them  (by  way  of  making  it  all 
right  and  straight  for  both  of  us,  you  know)  that  she  expects 
her  husband  to  join  her.  If  I  had  been  able  to  go  I  should 
have  asked  at  the  door  for  '  my  wife.'  You  ai-e  going  in  my 
place — " 

"  And  I  must  ask  at  the  door  for '  my  wife,'  or  I  shall  expose 
Miss  Silvester  to  unpleasant  consequences  ?" 


MAN   AND   WIFE.  8!? 

«  You  don't  object  ?" 

"  Not  I !  I  don't  care  what  I  say  to  the  people  of  the  inn. 
It's  the  meeting  with  Miss  Silvester  that  I'm  afraid  of." 

"  I'll  put  that  right  for  you — never  fear  !" 

He  went  at  once  to  the  table  and  rapidly  scribbled  a  few 
lines — then  stopped  and  considered.  "  Will  that  do  ?"  he  asked 
himself.  "  No  ;  I'd  better  say  something  spoony  to  quiet  her." 
He  considered  again,  added  a  line,  and  brought  his  hand  down 
on  the  table  with  a  cheery  smack.  "  That  will  do  the  business ! 
Read  it  yourself,  Arnold — it's  not  so  badly  written." 

Arnold  read  the  note  without  appearing  to  share  his  friend's 
favorable  opinion  of  it. 

"  This  is  rather  short,"  he  said. 

"  Have  I  time  to  make  it  longer  ?" 

"  Perhaps  not.  But  let  Miss  Silvester  see  for  herself  that 
you  have  no  time  to  make  it  longer.  The  train  starts  in  less 
than  half  an  hour.     Put  the  time." 

"  Oh,  all  right !  and  the  date  too,  if  you  like." 

He  had  just  added  the  desired  words  and  figures,  and  had 
given  the  revised  letter  to  Arnold,  when  Sir  Patrick  returned 
to  announce  that  the  gig  was  waiting. 

"  Come  !"  he  said.     "You  haven't  a  moment  to  lose !" 

Geoffrey  started  to  his  feet.     Arnold  hesitated. 

"  I  must  see  Blanche  !"  he  pleaded.  "  I  can't  leave  Blanche 
without  saying  good-bye.     Where  is  she  ?" 

Sir  Patrick  pointed  to  the  steps,  with  a  smile.  Blanche  had 
followed  him  from  the  house.     Arnold  ran  out  to  her  instantly. 

"  Going?"  she  said,  a  little  sadly. 

"  I  shall  be  back  in  two  days,"  Arnold  whispered.  "  It's  all 
right !     Sir  Patrick  consents." 

She  held  him  fast  by  the  arm.  The  hurried  parting  before 
other  people  seemed  to  be  not  a  parting  to  Blanche's  taste. 

"  You  will  lose  the  train  !"  cried  Sir  Patrick. 

Geoffrey  seized  Arnold  by  the  arm  which  Blanche  was  hold- 
ing, and  tore  him — literally  tore  him — away.  The  two  were 
out  of  sight,  in  the  shrubbery,  before  Blanche's  indignation 
found  words,  and  addressed  itself  to  her  uncle. 

"  Why  is  that  brute  going  away  with  Mr.  Brinkworth  ?"  she 
asked. 

"  Mr.  Delamayn  is  called  to  London  by  his  father's  illness," 
replied  Sir  Patrick.     "  You  don't  like  him  ?" 

« I  hate  him !" 

Sir  Patrick  reflected  a  little. 

"  She  is  a  young  girl  of  eighteen,"  he  thought  to  himself. 
"And  I  am  an  old  man  of  seventy.  Curious,  that  we  should 
agree  about  any  thing.  More  than  curious  that  we  should 
agree  in  disliking  Mr.  Delamayn." 


88  MAN   AND  WIFB. 

He  roused  himself,  aud  looked  again  at  Blanche.  She  was 
seated  at  the  table,  with  her  head  on  her  hand  ;  absent,  and 
out  of  spirits — thinking  of  Arnold,  and  yet,  with  the  future  all 
smooth  before  them,  not  thinking  happily. 

"  Why,  Blanche !  Blanche  !"  cried  Sir  Patrick,  "  one  would 
think  he  had  gone  for  a  voyage  round  the  world.  You  silly 
child  !  he  will  be  back  again  the  day  after  to-morrow." 

"  I  wish  he  hadn't  gone  with  that  man  !"  said  Blanche,  "  I 
wish  he  hadn't  got  that  man  for  a  friend !" 

"  There  !  there  !  the  man  was  rude  enough,  I  own.  Never 
mind !  he  will  leave  the  man  at  the  second  station.  Come 
back  to  the  ball-room  with  me.  Dance  it  off,  my  dear — dance 
it  off!" 

"No,"  returned  Blanche.  "I'm  in  no  humor  for  dancing. 
I  shall  go  up  stairs,  and  talk  about  it  to  Anne." 

"  You  will  do  nothing  of  the  sort !"  said  a  third  voice,  sud- 
denly joining  in  the  conversation. 

Both  uncle  and  niece  looked  up,  and  found  Lady  Lundie  at 
the  top  of  the  summer-house  steps. 

"  I  forbid  you  to  mention  that  woman's  name  again  in  my 
hearing,"  pursued  her  ladyship.  "  Sir  Patrick !  I  warned  you 
(if  you  remember  ?)  that  the  matter  of  the  governess  was  not 
a  matter  to  be  trifled  with.  My  worst  anticipations  are  re- 
alized.    Miss  Silvester  has  left  the  house  !" 


CHAPTER  THE  EIGHTH. 

THE   SCANDAL. 


It  was  still  early  in  the  afternoon  when  the  guests  at  Lady 
Lundie's  lawn-party  began  to  compare  notes  together  in  corners, 
and  to  agree  in  arriving  at  a  general  conviction  that  "  some- 
thing was  wrong." 

Blanche  had  mysteriously  disappeared  from  her  partners  in 
the  dance.  Lady  Lundie  had  mysteriously  abandoned  her 
guests.  Blanche  had  not  come  back.  Lady  Lundie  had  re- 
turned with  an  artificial  smile,  and  a  preoccupied  manner.  She 
acknowledged  that  she  was  "  not  very  well."  The  same  excuse 
had  been  given  to  account  for  Blanche's  absence — and,  again 
(some  time  pi*eviously),  to  explain  Miss  Silvester's  withdrawal 
from  the  croquet !  A  wit  among  the  gentlemen  declared  it  I'e- 
minded  him  of  declining  a  verb — "  I  am  not  very  well ;  ihou 
art  not  very  well ;  she  is  not  very  well,"  and  so  on.  Sir  Pat- 
rick too !  Only  think  of  the  sociable  Sir  Patrick  being  in  a 
state  of  seclusion — pacing  up  and  down  by  himself  in  the  lone- 


MAN  AND   WIFE.  89 

liest  part  of  the  garden.  And  the  servants,  again  !  it  had  even 
spread  to  the  servants !  They  were  presuming  to  whisper  in 
corners,  like  their  betters.  The  house-maids  appeared,  spas- 
modically, where  house-maids  had  no  business  to  be.  Doors 
banged  and  petticoats  whisked  in  the  upper  regions.  Some- 
thing wrong — depend  upon  it,  something  wrong  !  "  We  had 
much  better  go  away.  My  dear,  order  the  carriage." — "  Louisa, 
love,  no  more  dancing ;  your  papa  is  going." — "  (rOO0?-afternoon, 
Lady  Lundie !" — "Haw  !  thanks  very  much!" — "/iSo  sorry  for 
dear  Blanche!" — "Oh,  it's  been  too  charming!"  So  Society 
jabbered  its  poor,  nonsensical  little  jargon,  and  got  itself  po- 
litely out  of  the  way  before  the  storm  came. 

This  was  exactly  the  consummation  of  events  for  which  Sir 
Patrick  had  been  waiting  in  the  seclusion  of  the  garden. 

There  was  no  evading  the  responsibility  which  was  now 
thrust  upon  him.  Lady  Lundie  had  announced  it  as  a  settled 
resolution,  on  her  part,  to  trace  Anne  to  the  place  in  which  she 
had  taken  refuge,  and  discover  (purely  in  the  interests  of  vir- 
tue) whether  she  actually  was  married  or  not.  Blanche  (already 
overwrought  by  the  excitement  of  the  day)  had  broken  into  an 
hysterical  passion  of  tears  on  hearing  the  news,  and  had  then, 
on  recovering,  taken  a  view  of  her  own  of  Anne's  flight  from 
the  house.  Anne  would  never  have  kept  her  marriage  a  secret 
from  Blanche ;  Anne  would  never  have  written  such  a  formal 
farewell  letter  as  she  had  written  to  Blanche — if  things  were 
going  as  smoothly  with  her  as  she  was  trying  to  make  them 
believe  at  Windygates.  Some  dreadful  trouble  had  fallen  on 
Anne — and  Blanche  was  determined  (as  Lady  Lundie  was  de- 
termined) to  find  out  where  she  had  gone,  and  to  follow,  and 
help  her. 

It  was  plain  to  Sir  Patrick  (to  whom  both  ladies  had  opened 
their  hearts,  at  separate  interviews)  that  his  sister-in-law,  in 
one  way,  and  his  niece  in  another,  were  equally  likely — if  not 
duly  restrained — to  plunge  headlong  into  acts  of  indiscretion 
which  might  lead  to  very  undesirable  results.  A  man  in  au- 
thority was  sorely  needed  at  Windygates  that  afternoon — and 
Sir  Patrick  was  fain  to  acknowledge  that  he  was  the  man. 

"  Much  is  to  be  said  for,  and  much  is  to  be  said  against,  a 
single  life,"  thought  the  old  gentleman,  walking  up  and  down 
the  sequestered  garden-path  to  which  he  had  retired,  and  ap- 
plying himself  at  shorter  intervals  than  usual  to  the  knob  of  his 
ivory  cane.  "  This,  however,  is,  I  take  it,  certain.  A  man's 
married  friends  can't  prevent  him  from  leading  the  life  of  a 
bachelor,  if  he  pleases.  But  they  can,  and  do,  take  devilish 
good  care  that  he  sha'n't  enjoy  it !" 

Sir  Patrick's  meditations  were  inteiTupted  by  the  appear- 
ance of  a  servant,  previously  instructed  to  keep  him  informed 
of  the  progress  of  events  at  the  house. 


90  MAN  AND  WIFE. 

"  They're  all  gone,  Sir  Patrick,"  said  the  man. 

"  That's  a  comfort,  Simpson.  We  have  no  visitors  to  deal 
with  now,  except  the  visitors  who  are  staying  in  the  house  ?" 

"  None,  Sir  Patrick." 

"  They're  all  gentlemen,  are  they  not  ?" 

"  Yes,  Sir  Patrick." 

"That's  another  comfort,  Simpson.  Very  good.  Pll  see 
Lady  Lundie  first." 

Does  any  other  form  of  human  resolution  approach  the  firm- 
ness of  a  woman  who  is  bent  on  discovering  the  frailties  of  an- 
other woman  whom  she  hates  ?  You  may  move  rocks,  under 
a  given  set  of  circumstances.  But  here  is  a  delicate  being  in 
petticoats,  who  shrieks  if  a  spider  drops  on  her  neck,  and  shud- 
ders if  you  approach  her  after  having  eaten  an  onion.  Can 
you  move  Aer,  under  a  given  set  of  circumstances,  as  set  forth 
above  ?     Not  you  ! 

Sir  Patrick  found  her  ladyship  instituting  her  uiquiries  on 
the  same  admirably  exhaustive  system  which  is  pursued,  in 
cases  of  disappearance,  by  the  police.  Who  was  the  last  wit- 
ness who  had  seen  the  missing  person  ?  Who  Avas  the  last 
servant  who  had  seen  Ann  Silvester  ?  Begin  with  the  men- 
servants,  from  the  butler  at  the  top  to  the  stable-boy  at  the 
bottom.  Go  on  with  the  women-servants,  from  the  cook  in  all 
her  glory  to  the  small  female  child  who  weeds  the  garden. 
Lady  Lundie  had  cross-examined  her  way  downward  as  far  as 
the  page,  when  Sir  Patrick  joined  her. 

"  My  dear  lady !  pardon  me  for  reminding  you  again,  that 
this  is  a  free  country,  and  that  you  have  no  claim  whatever  to 
investigate  Miss  Silvester's  proceedings  after  she  has  left  your 
house." 

Lady  Lundie  raised  her  eyes,  devotionally,  to  the  ceiling. 
She  looked  like  a  martyr  to  duty.  If  you  had  seen  her  lady- 
ship at  that  moment,  you  would  have  said  yourself,  "A  mar- 
tyr to  duty." 

"No,  Sir  Patrick!  As  a  Christian  woman,  that  is  not  tny 
way  of  looking  at  it.  This  unhappy  person  has  lived  under 
my  roof  This  unhappy  person  has  been  the  companion  of 
Blanche.  I  am  responsible  —  I  am,  in  a  manner,  morally  re- 
sponsible. I  would  give  the  world  to  be  able  to  dismiss  it  as 
you  do.  But  no!  I  must  be  satisfied  that  she  is  married.  In 
the  interests  of  propi-iety.  For  the  quieting  of  my  own  con- 
science. Before  I  lay  my  head  on  my  pillow  to-night,  Sir  Pat- 
rick— before  I  lay  ray  head  on  my  pillow  to-night !" 

"  One  word,  Lady  Lundie — " 

"  No  !"  repeated  her  ladyship,  with  the  most  pathetic  gen- 
tleness. "  Yoti  are  right,  I  dare  say,  from  the  worldly  point 
of  view.     I  can't  take  the  worldly  point  of  view.     The  worldly 


MAN    AND   WIFE.  91 

point  of  view  hurts  me."  She  turned,  with  impressive  gravi- 
ty, to  the  page.  "  You  know  where  you  will  go,  Jonathan,  if 
you  tell  lies  !" 

Jonathan  was  lazy,  Jonathan  was  pimply,  Jonathan  was  fat 
— hut  Jonathan  was  orthodox.  He  answered  that  he  did  know ; 
and,  what  is  more,  he  mentioned  the  place. 

Sir  Patrick  saw  that  further  opposition  on  his  part,  at  that 
moment,  would  be  worse  than  useless.  He  wisely  determined 
to  wait,  before  he  interfered  again,  until  Lady  Lundie  had  thor- 
oughly exhausted  herself  and  her  inquiries.  At  the  same  time 
— as  it  was  impossible,  in  the  present  state  of  her  ladyship's 
temper,  to  provide  against  what  might  happen  if  the  inquiries 
after  Anne  unluckily  proved  successful — he  decided  on  taking 
measures  to  clear  the  house  of  the  guests  (in  the  interests  of 
all  parties)  for  the  next  four-and-twenty  hours. 

"  I  only  want  to  ask  you  a  question.  Lady  Lundie,"  he  re- 
sumed. "  The  position  of  the  gentlemen  who  are  staying  here 
is  not  a  very  pleasant  one  while  all  this  is  going  on.  If  you 
had  been  content  to  let  the  matter  pass  without  notice,  we 
should  have  done  very  well.  As  things  are,  don't  you  think 
it  will  be  more  convenient  to  every  body  if  I  relieve  you  of  the 
responsibility  of  entertaining  your  guests  ?" 

"As  head  of  the  family?"  stipulated  Lady  Lundie. 

"As  head  of  the  family!"  answered  Sir  Patrick. 

"  I  gratefully  accept  the  proposal,"  said  Lady  Lundie. 

"I  beg  you  won't  mention  it,"  rejoined  Sir  Patrick. 

He  quitted  the  room,  leaving  Jonathan  under  examination. 
He  and  his  brother  (the  late  Sir  Thomas)  had  chosen  widely 
different  paths  in  life,  and  had  seen  but  little  of  each  other 
since  the  time  when  they  had  been  boys.  Sir  Patrick's  recol- 
lections (on  leaving  Lady  Lundie)  appeared  to  have  taken  him 
back  to  that  time,  and  to  have  inspired  him  with  a  certain  ten- 
derness for  his  brother's  memory.  He  shook  his  head,  and 
sighed  a  sad  little  sigh.  "  Poor  Tom  !"  he  said  to  himself, 
softly,  after  he  had  shut  the  door  on  his  brother's  widow. 
"  Poor  Tom  !" 

On  crossing  the  hall,  he  stopped  the  first  servant  he  met, 
to  inquire  after  Blanche.  Miss  Blanche  was  quiet,  up  stairs, 
closeted  with  her  maid  in  her  own  room.  "  Quiet  ?"  thought  Sir 
Patrick.     "That's  a  bad  sign.     I  shall  hear  more  of  my  niece." 

Pending  that  event,  the  next  thing  to  do  was  to  find  the 
guests.  Unerring  instinct  led  Sir  Patrick  to  the  billiard-room. 
There  he  found  them,  in  solemn  conclave  assembled,  wonder- 
ing what  they  had  better  do.  Sir  Patrick  put  them  all  at  their 
ease  in  two  minutes. 

"  What  do  you  say  to  a  day's  shooting  to  -  morrow  '?"  he 
asked. 


92  MAN   AND   WIFE. 

Every  man  present — sportsman  or  not — said  yes. 

"  You  can  start  from  this  house,"  pursued  Sir  Patrick ;  "  or 
you  can  start  from  a  shooting-cottage  which  is  on  the  Windy- 
gates  property — among  the  woods,  on  the  other  side  of  the 
moor.  The  weather  looks  pretty  well  settled  (for  Scotland), 
and  there  are  plenty  of  horses  in  the  stables.  It  is  useless  to 
conceal  from  you,  gentlemen,  that  events  have  taken  a  certain 
unexpected  turn  in  my  sister-in-law's  family  circle.  You  will 
be  equally  Lady  Lundie's  guests,  w^hether  you  choose  the  cot- 
tage or  the  house.  For  the  next  twenty -four  hours  (let  us 
say) — which  shall  it  be  ?" 

Every  body — with  or  without  rheumatism — answered  "  the 
cottage !" 

"  Very  good,"  pursued  Sir  Patrick.  "  It  is  arranged  to  ride 
over  to  the  shooting-cottage  this  evening,  and  to  try  the  moor, 
on  that  side,  the  first  thing  in  the  morning.  If  events  here 
will  allow  me,  I  shall  be  delighted  to  accompany  you,  and  do 
the  honors  as  well  as  I  can.  If  not,  I  am  sure  you  will  accept 
my  apologies  for  to-night,  and  permit  Lady  Lundie's  steward 
to  see  to  your  comfort  in  my  place." 

Adopted  unanimously.  Sir  Patrick  left  the  guests  to  their 
billiards,  and  went  out  to  give  the  necessary  orders  at  the 
stables. 

In  the  mean  time  Blanche  remained  portentously  quiet  in 
the  upper  regions  of  the  house ;  while  Lady  Lundie  steadily 
pursued  her  inquiries  down  stairs.  She  got  on  from  Jonathan 
(last  of  the  males,  indoors)  to  the  coachman  (first  of  the  males, 
out-of-doors),  and  dug  down,  man  by  man,  through  that  new 
stratum,  until  she  struck  the  stable-boy  at  the  bottom.  Not 
an  atom  of  information  having  been  extracted,  in  the  house  or 
out  of  the  house,  from  man  or  boy,  her  ladyship  fell  back  on 
the  women  next.  She  pulled  the  bell,  and  summoned  the  cook 
— Hester  Deth  ridge. 

A  very  remarkable-looking  person  entered  the  room. 

Elderly  and  quiet ;  scrupulously  clean ;  eminently  respecta- 
ble ;  her  gray  hair  neat  and  smooth  under  her  modest  white 
cap ;  her  eyes,  set  deep  in  their  orbits,  looking  straight  at  any 
person  who  spoke  to  her — here,  at  a  first  view,  was  a  steady, 
trustworthy  woman.  Here  also,  on  closer  inspection,  was  a 
woman  with  the  seal  of  some  terrible  past  suffering  set  on  her 
for  the  rest  of  her  life.  You  felt  it,  rather  than  saw  it,  in  the 
look  of  immovable  endurance  which  underlaid  her  expression 
— in  the  death-like  tranquillity  which  never  disappeared  from 
her  manner.  Her  story  was  a  sad  one  —  so  far  as  it  was 
known.  She  had  entered  Lady  Lundie's  service  at  the  period 
of  Lady  Lundie's  marriage  to  Sir  Thomas.     Her  characte'*' 


MAN    AND    WIFE.  93 

(given  by  the  clergyman  of  her  parish)  described  her  as  hav- 
ing been  married  to  an  inveterate  drunkard,  and  as  having 
suffered  unutterably  during  her  husband's  lifetime.  There 
were  drawbacks  to  engaging  her,  now  that  she  was  a  widow. 
On  one  of  the  many  occasions  on  which  her  husband  had  per- 
sonally ill-treated  her,  he  had  struck  her  a  blow  which  had 
produced  very  remarkable  nervous  results.  She  had  lain  in- 
sensible many  days  together,  and  had  recovered  with  the  total 
loss  of  her  speech.  In  addition  to  this  objection,  she  was  odd, 
at  times,  in  her  manner ;  and  she  made  it  a  condition  of  ac- 
cepting any  situation,  that  she  sliould  be  privileged  to  sleep 
in  a  room  by  herself.  As  a  set-off  against  all  this,  it  was  to 
be  said,  on  the  other  side  of  the  question,  that  she  was  sober; 
rigidly  honest  in  all  her  dealings ;  and  one  of  the  best  cooks 
in  England,  In  consideration  of  this  last  merit,  the  late  Sir 
Thomas  had  decided  on  giving  her  a  trial,  and  had  discovered 
that  he  had  never  dined  in  his  life  as  he  dined  when  Hester 
Dethridge  was  at  tlie  head  of  his  kitchen.  She  remained,  af- 
ter his  death,  in  his  widow's  service.  Lady  Lundie  was  far 
from  liking  her.  An  unpleasant  suspicion  attached  to  the 
cook,  which  Sir  Thomas  had  overlooked,  but  which  persons 
less  sensible  of  the  immense  importance  of  dining  well  could 
not  fail  to  regard  as  a  serious  objection  to  her.  Medical  men, 
consulted  about  her  case,  discovered  certain  physiological 
anomalies  in  it  which  led  them  to  suspect  the  woman  of  feign- 
ing dumbness,  for  some  reason  best  known  to  herself  She 
obstinately  declined  to  learn  the  deaf  and  dumb  alphabet — 
on  the  ground  that  dumbness  was  not  associated  with  deafness 
in  her  case.  Stratagems  were  invented  (seeing  that  she  really 
did  possess  the  use  of  her  ears)  to  entrap  her  into  also  using 
her  speech,  and  failed.  Efforts  were  made  to  induce  her  to 
answer  questions  relating  to  her  past  life  in  her  husband's 
time.  She  flatly  declined  to  reply  to  them,  one  and  all.  At 
certain  intervals,  strange  impulses  to  get  a  holiday  away  from 
the  house  appeared  to  seize  her.  If  she  was  resisted,  she  pas- 
sively declined  to  do  her  work.  If  she  was  threatened  with 
dismissal,  she  impenetrably  bowed  her  head,  as  much  as  to 
say,  "  Give  me  the  word,  and  I  go."  Over  and  over  again. 
Lady  Lundie  had  decided,  naturally  enough,  on  no  longer 
keeping  such  a  servant  as  this ;  but  she  had  never  yet  carried 
the  decision  to  execution.  A  cook  who  is  a  perfect  mistress 
of  her  art,  who  asks  for  no  perquisites,  who  allows  no  waste, 
who  never  quarrels  with  the  other  servants,  who  drinks  noth- 
ing stronger  than  tea,  who  is  to  be  trusted  with  untold  gold 
— is  not  a  cook  easily  replaced.  In  this  mortal  life  we  put  up 
with  many  persons  and  things,  as  Lady  Lundie  put  up  with 
her  cook.     The  woman  lived,  as  it  were,  on  the  brink  of  dis- 


94  MAN    AND    WIFE. 

missal;  but  thus  far  the  woman  kept  her  place — getting  her 
holidays  when  she  asked  for  them  (which,  to  do  her  justice, 
was  not  often),  and  sleeping  always  (go  where  she  might  with 
the  family)  with  a  locked  door,  in  a  room  by  herself 

Hester  Dethridge  advanced  slowly  to  the  table  at  which 
Lady  Lundie  was  sitting.  A  slate  and  pencil  hung  at  her  side, 
which  she  used  for  making  such  replies  as  were  not  to  be  ex- 
pressed by  a  gesture  or  by  a  motion  of  the  head.  She  took 
up  the  slate  and  pencil,  and  waited  with  stony  submission  for 
her  mistress  to  begin. 

Lady  Lundie  opened  the  proceedings  with  the  regular  form- 
ula of  inquiry  which  she  had  used  with  all  the  other  servants. 

"Do  you  know  that  Miss  Silvester  has  left  the  house  ?" 

The  cook  nodded  her  head  affirmatively. 

"Do  you  know  at  what  time  she  left  it?" 

Another  affirmative  reply.  The  first  which  Lady  Lundie 
had  received  to  that  question  yet.  She  eagerly  went  on  t*^ 
the  next  inquiry. 

"  Have  you  seen  her  since  she  left  the  house  ?" 

A  third  affirmative  reply. 

"Where?" 

Hester  Dethridge  wrote  slowly  on  the  slate,  in  singularly 
firm  upright  characters  for  a  woman  in  her  position  of  life, 
these  words : 

"  On  the  road  that  leads  to  the  railway.  Nigh  to  Mistress 
Chew's  Farm." 

"  What  did  you  want  at  Chew's  Farm  ?" 

Hester  Dethridge  wrote:  "I  wanted  eggs  for  the  kitchen, 
and  a  breath  of  fresh  air  for  myself" 

"Did  Miss  Silvester  see  you?" 

A  negative  shake  of  the  head. 

"Did  she  take  the  turning  that  leads  to  the  railway?" 

Another  negative  shake  of  the  head. 

"  She  went  on  toward  the  moor?" 

An  affirmative  reply. 

"What  did  she  do  when  she  got  to  the  moor?" 

Hester  Dethridge  wrote :  "  She  took  the  foot-path  which 
leads  to  Craig  Fernie." 

Lady  Lundie  rose  excitedly  to  her  feet.  There  was  but  one 
place  that  a  stranger  could  go  to  at  Craig  Fernie.  "  The  inn  !" 
exclaimed  her  ladyship.     "  She  has  gone  to  the  inn  !" 

Hester  Dethridge  waited  immovably.  Lady  Lundie  put  a 
last  precautionary  question,  in  these  words  : 

"Have  you  reported  what  you  have  seen  to  anybody  else?" 

An  affirmative  reply.  Lady  Lundie  had  not  bargained  for 
that.  Hester  Dethridge  (she  thought)  must  surely  have  mis- 
understood her. 


MAN    AND    WIFE.  97 

"Do  you  mean  that  you  have  told  somebody  else  what  you 
have  just  told  me  ?" 

Another  affirmative  reply, 

"A  person  who  questioned  you,  as  I  have  done?" 

A  third  affirmative  reply. 

"  Who  was  it  ?" 

Hester  Dethridge  wrote  on  her  slate :  "  Miss  Blanche." 

Lady  Lundie  stepped  back,  staggered  by  the  discovery  that 
Blanche's  resolution  to  trace  Anne  Silvester  was,  to  all  appear- 
ance, as  firmly  settled  as  her  own.  Her  step-daughter  was 
keeping  her  own  counsel,  and  acting  on  her  own  responsibil- 
ity— her  step-daughter  might  be  an  awkward  obstacle  in  the 
way.  The  manner  in  which  Anne  had  left  the  house  had  mor- 
tally offended  Lady  Lundie,  An  inveterately  vindictive  worn 
an,  she  had  resolved  to  discover  whatever  compromising  ele- 
ments might  exist  in  the  governess's  secret,  and  to  make  them 
public  property  (from  a  paramount  sense  of  duty,  of  course) 
among  her  own  circle  of  friends.  But  to  do  this — with  Blanche 
acting  (as  might  certainly  be  anticipated)  in  direct  opposition 
to  her,  and  openly  espousing  Miss  Silvester's  interests — was 
manifestly  impossible. 

The  first  thing  to  be  done — and  that  instantly — was  to  in- 
form Blanche  that  she  was  discovered,  and  to  forbid  her  t« 
stir  in  the  matter. 

Lady  Lundie  rang  the  bell  twice — thus  intimating,  accord- 
ing to  the  laws  of  the  household,  that  she  required  the  attend- 
ance of  her  own  maid.  She  then  turned  to  the  cook  —  still 
waiting  her  pleasure,  with  stony  composure,  slate  in  hand, 

"  You  have  done  wrong,"  said  her  ladyship,  severely,  "  I 
am  your  mistress.     You  are  bound  to  answer  your  mistress — " 

Hester  Dethridge  bowed  her  head,  in  icy  acknowledgment 
of  the  principle  laid  down — so  far. 

The  bow  was  an  interruption.     Lady  Lundie  resented  it. 

"But  Miss  Blanche  is  not  your  mistress,"  she  went  on, 
sternly.  "You  are  very  much  to  blame  for  answering  Miss 
Blanche's  inquiries  about  Miss  Silvester," 

Hester  Dethridge,  perfectly  unmoved,  wrote  her  justification 
on  her  slate,  in  two  stiff  sentences :  "  I  had  no  orders  not  to 
answer,     I  keep  nobody's  secrets  but  my  own," 

That  reply  settled  the  question  of  the  cook's  dismissal — the 
question  which  had  been  pending  for  months  past, 

"  You  are  an  insolent  woman  !  I  have  borne  with  you  long 
enough — I  will  bear  with  you  no  longer.  When  your  month 
is  up,  you  go  !" 

In  those  words  Lady  Lundie  dismissed  Hester  Dethridge 
from  her  service. 

Not  the  slightest  change  passed  over  the  sinister  tranquillity 

n 


98  MAN    AND    WIFB. 

of  the  cook.  She  bowed  her  head  again,  in  acknowledgment 
of  the  sentence  pronounced  on  her — dropped  her  slate  at  her 
side — turned  about — and  left  the  room.  The  woman  was  alive 
in  the  world,  and  working  in  the  world ;  and  yet  (so  far  as  all 
human  interests  were  concerned)  she  was  as  completely  out  of 
the  world  as  if  she  had  been  screwed  down  in  her  coffin  and 
laid  in  her  grave. 

Lady  Lundie's  maid  came  into  the  room  as  Hester  left  it. 

"  Go  up  stairs  to  Miss  Blanche,"  said  her  mistress, "  and  say 
I  want  her  here.  Wait  a  minute  !"  She  paused,  and  consid- 
ered. Blanche  might  decline  to  submit  to  her  step-mother's 
interference  with  her.  It  might  be  necessary  to  appeal  to  the 
higher  authority  of  her  guardian.  "  Do  you  know  where  Sir 
Patrick  is  ?"  asked  Lady  Lundie. 

"  I  heard  Simpson  say,  my  lady,  that  Sir  Patrick  was  at  the 
stables," 

"  Send  Simpson  with  a  message.  My  compliments  to  Sir 
Patrick — and  I  wish  to  see  him  immediately." 

The  preparations  for  the  departure  to  the  shooting-cottage 
were  just  completed  ;  and  the  one  question  that  remained  to 
be  settled  was,  whether  Sir  Patrick  could  accompany  the  party 
— when  the  man-servant  appeared  with  the  message  from  his 
mistress. 

"  Will  you  give  me  a  quarter  of  an  hour,  gentlemen  ?"  asked 
Sir  Patrick.  "  In  that  time  I  shall  know  for  certain  whether 
I  can  go  with  you  or  not." 

As  a  matter  of  course,  the  guests  decided  to  wait.  The 
younger  men  among  them  (being  Englishmen)  naturally  occu- 
pied their  leisure  time  in  betting.  Would  Sir  Patrick  get  the 
better  of  the  domestic  crisis  ?  or  would  the  domestic  crisis  get 
the  better  of  Sir  Patrick  ?  The  domestic  crisis  was  backed,  at 
two  to  one,  to  win. 

Punctually  at  the  expiration  of  the  quarter  of  an  hour,  Sir 
Patrick  reappeared.  The  domestic  crisis  had  betrayed  the 
blind  confidence  which  youth  and  inexperience  had  placed  in 
it.     Sir  Patrick  had  won  the  day. 

"  Things  are  settled  and  quiet,  gentlemen  ;  and  I  am  able  to 
accompany  you,"  he  said.  "  There  are  two  ways  to  the  shoot- 
ing-cottage. One — the  longest — passes  by  the  inn  at  Craig 
Fernie.  I  am  compelled  to  ask  you  to  go  with  me  by  that 
way.  While  you  push  on  to  the  cottage,  I  must  drop  behind, 
and  say  a  word  to  a  person  who  is  staying  at  the  inn." 

He  had  quieted  Lady  Lundie — he  had  even  quieted  Blanche. 
But  it  was  evidently  on  the  condition  that  he  was  to  go  to 
Craig  Fernie  in  their  places,  and  to  see  Anne  Silvester  himself 
Without  a  word  more  of  explanation  he  mounted  his  horse 
and  led  the  way  out.     The  shooting-party  left  Windygates. 


MAN   AND   WIFE.  09 


SECOND  SCENE.— THE  INN. 
CHAPTER   THE   NINTH, 

ANNE. 

"  Ye'll  just  permit  me  to  reraiud  ye  again,  young  leddy, 
that  the  hottle's  full — exceptin'  only  this  settin'-room,  and  the 
bed-chamber  yonder  belonging  to  it." 

So  spoke  "  Mistress  Inchbare,"  landlady  of  the  Craig  Fernie 
Inn,  to  Anne  Silvester,  standing  in  the  parlor,  purse  in  hand, 
and  oftering  the  price  of  the  two  rooms  before  she  claimed 
permission  to  occupy  them. 

The  time  of  the  afternoon  was  about  the  time  when  Geoffrey 
Delamayn  had  started  in  the  train,  on  his  journey  to  London. 
About  the  time,  also,  when  Arnold  Brinkworth  had  crossed  the 
moor,  and  was  mounting  the  first  rising  ground  which  led  to 
the  inn. 

Mistress  Inchbare  was  tall  and  thin,  and  decent  and  dry. 
Mistress  Inchbare's  unlovable  hair  lung  fast  round  her  head  in 
wiry  little  yellow  curls.  Mistress  Inchbare's  hard  bones  show- 
ed themselves,  like  Mistress  Inchbare's  hard  Presbyterianism, 
without  any  concealment  or  compromise.  In  short,  a  savage- 
ly-respectable woman,  who  plumed  herself  on  presiding  over  a 
savagely-respectable  inn. 

There  was  no  competition  to  interfere  with  Mistress  Inch- 
bare.  She  regulated  her  own  prices,  and  made  her  own  rules. 
If  you  objected  to  her  prices,  and  revolted  from  her  rules,  you 
were  free  to  go.  In  other  words,  you  were  free  to  cast  your- 
self, in  the  capacity  of  houseless  wanderer,  on  the  scanty  mer- 
cy of  a  Scotch  wilderness.  The  village  of  Craig  Fernie  was  a 
collection  of  hovels.  The  country  about  Craig  Fernie,  mount- 
ain on  one  side  and  moor  on  the  other,  held  no  second  house 
of  public  entertainment,  for  miles  and  miles  round,  at  any  point 
of  the  compass.  No  rambling  individual  but  the  helpless 
British  Tourist  wanted  food  and  shelter  from  strangers,  in  that 
part  of  Scotland  ;  and  nobody  but  Mistress  Inchbare  had  food 
and  shelter  to  sell.  A  more  thoroughly  independent  person 
than  this  was  not  to  be  found  on  the  thee  of  the  hotel-keeping 
earth.  The  most  universal  of  all  civilized  terrors — the  terror 
of  appearing  unfavorably  in  the  newspapers — was  a  sensation 
absolutely  unknown  to  the  Empress  of  the  Inn.  You  lost  your 
temper,  and  threatened  to  send  her  bill  for  exhibition  in  the 


100  MAN  AND   WIFE. 

public  journals.  Mistress  Inchbare  raised  no  objection  to  your 
taking  any  course  you  pleased  with  it.  "  Eh,  man !  send  the 
bill  whar'  ye  like,  as  long  as  ye  pay  it  first.  There's  nae  such 
thing  as  a  newspaper  ever  darkens  my  doors.  Ye've  got  the 
Auld  and  New  Testaments  in  your  bed-chambers,  and  the  natu- 
ral history  o'  Paiithshire  on  the  coffee-room  table — and  if  that's 
no'  reading  eneugh  for  ye,  ye  may  een  gae  back  South  again, 
and  get  the  rest  of  it  there." 

This  was  the  inn  at  which  Anne  Silvester  had  appeared 
alone,  with  nothing  but  a  little  bag  in  her  hand.  This  was^ 
the  woman  whose  reluctance  to  receive  her  she  innocently  ex- 
pected to  overcome  by  showing  her  purse. 

"  Mention  your  charge  for  the  rooms,"  she  said.  "  I  am  will- 
ing to  pay  for  them  beforehand." 

Her  majesty,  Mrs.  Inchbare,  never  even  looked  at  her  sub- 
ject's poor  little  purse. 

"  It  just  comes  to  this,  mistress,"  she  answered.  "  I'm  no' 
free  to  tak'  your  money,  if  I'm  no'  free  to  let  ye  the  last  rooms 
left  in  the  hoose.  The  Craig  Fernie  bottle  is  a  faimily  hottle — 
and  has  its  ain  gude  name  to  keep  up.  Ye're  ower-well-look- 
ing,  my  young  leddy,  to  be  traveling  alone." 

The  time  had  been  when  Anne  would  have  answered  sharp- 
ly enough.  The  hard  necessities  of  her  position  made  her  pa- 
tient now. 

"  I  have  already  told  you,"  she  said,  "my  husband  is  coming 
here  to  join  me."  She  sighed  wearily  as  she  repeated  her 
ready-made  story — and  dropped  into  the  nearest  chair,  from 
sheer  inability  to  stand  any  longer. 

Mistress  Inchbare  looked  at  her,  with  the  exact  measure  of 
compassionate  interest  which  she  might  have  shown  if  she  had 
been  looking  at  a  stray  dog  who  had  fallen  foot-sore  at  the 
door  of  the  inn. 

"  Weel !  weel !  sae  let  it  be.  Bide  awhile,  and  rest  ye.  We'll 
no'  chairge  ye  for  that — and  we'll  see  if  your  husband  comes. 
I'll  just  let  the  rooms,  mistress,  to  ^^m,  instead  o'  lettin'  them 
to  you.  And,  sae,  good-morrow  t'  ye."  With  that  final  an- 
nouncement of  her  royal  will  and  pleasure,  the  Empress  of  the 
Inn  withdrew. 

Anne  made  no  reply.  She  watched  the  landlady  out  of  the 
room — and  then  struggled  to  control  herself  no  longer.  In 
her  position,  suspicion  was  doubly  insult.  The  hot  tears  of 
shame  gathered  in  her  eyes ;  and  the  heart-ache  wrung  her, 
poor  soul — wrung  her  without  mercy. 

A  trifling  noise  in  the  room  startled  her.  She  looked  up, 
and  detected  a  man  in  a  corner  dusting  the  furniture,  and 
apparently  acting  in  the  capacity  of  attendant  at  the  inn.  He 
had  shown  her  into  the  parlor  on  her  arrival;  but  he  had  re- 


MAN    AND    WIFE.  101 

mained  so  quietly  in  the  room  that  she  had  never  noticed  him 
since,  until  that  moment. 

He  was  an  ancient  man — with  one  eye  filmy  and  blind,  and 
one  eye  moist  and  merry.  His  head  was  bald ;  his  feet  were 
gouty;  his  nose  was  justly  celebrated  as  the  largest  nose  and 
the  reddest  nose  in  that  part  of  Scotland.  The  mild  wisdom 
of  years  was  expressed  mysteriously  in  his  mellow  smile.  In 
contact  with  this  wicked  world,  his  manner  revealed  that  hap- 
py mixture  of  two  extremes — the  servility  which  just  touches 
independence,  and  the  independence  which  just  touches  servil- 
ity— attained  by  no  men  in  existence  but  Scotchmen.  Enor- 
mous native  impudence,  which  amused  but  never  offended  ;  im- 
measurable cunning,  masquerading  habitually  under  the  dou- 
ble disguise  of  quaint  prejudice  and  dry  humor,  were  the  solid 
moral  foundations  on  which  the  character  of  this  elderly  per- 
son was  built.  No  amount  of  whisky  ever  made  him  drunk; 
and  no  violence  of  bell-ringing  ever  hurried  his  movements. 
Such  was  the  head-waiter  at  the  Craig  Fernie  Inn ;  known,  far 
and  wide,  to  local  fame,  as  "Maister  Bishopriggs,  Mistress 
Inchbare's  right-hand  man." 

"  What  are  you  doing  there  ?"  Anne  asked,  sharply. 

Mr.  Bishopriggs  turned  himself  about  on  his  gouty  feet ; 
waved  his  duster  gently  in  the  air ;  and  looked  at  Anne,  with 
a  mild,  paternal  smile. 

"Eh!  Am  just  doostin'  the  things;  and  settiu'  the  room  in 
decent  order  for  ye." 

"  For  me  ?    Did  you  hear  what  the  landlady  said  ?" 

Mr.  Bishopriggs  advanced  confidentially,  and  pointed  with 
a  very  unsteady  forefinger  to  the  purse  which  Anne  still  held 
in  her  hand. 

"  Never  fash  yoursel'  aboot  the  landleddy !"  said  the  sage 
chief  of  the  Craig  Fernie  waiters,  "Your  purse  speaks  for 
you,  my  lassie.  Pet  it  up  !"  cried  Mr.  Bishopi'iggs,  waving 
temptation  away  from  him  with  the  duster.  "  In  wi'  it  into 
yer  pocket !  Sae  long  as  the  warld's  the  warld,  I'll  uphaud  it 
anywhei'e  —  while  there's  siller  in  the  purse,  there's  gude  in 
the  woman !" 

Anne's  patience,  which  had  resisted  harder  ti'ials,  gave  way 
at  this. 

"  What  do  you  mean  by  speaking  to  me  in  that  familiar 
manner  ?"  she  asked,  rising  angrily  to  her  feet  again. 

Mr.  Bishopriggs  tucked  his  duster  under  his  arm,  and  pro- 
ceeded to  satisfy  Anne  that  he  shared  the  landlady's  view  of 
her  position,  without  sharing  the  severity  of  the  landlady's 
principles.  "There's  nae  man  livin',"  said  Mr.  Bishopriggs, 
"  looks  with  mair  indulgence  at  human  frailty  than  my  ain  sel'. 
Am  I  no'  to  be  familiar  wi'  ye — when  I'm  auld  eneugh  to  be  a 


102  MAN    AND   WIPE. 

fether  to  ye,  and  ready  to  be  a  father  to  ye  till  further  notice? 
Hech  !  hech  !  Order  your  bit  dinner,  lassie.  Husband  or  no 
husband,  ye've  got  a  stomach,  and  ye  must  een  eat.  There's 
fesh  and  there's  fowl — or,  maybe,  ye'Il  be  for  the  sheep's-head 
singit,  when  they've  done  with  it  at  the  tabble  dot?" 

There  was  but  one  way  of  getting  rid  of  him :  "  Order  what 
you  like,"  Anne  said,  "  and  leave  the  room."  Mr.  Bishopriggs 
highly  approved  of  the  first  half  of  the  sentence,  and  totally 
overlooked  the  second. 

"Ay,  ay — .just  pet  a'  yer  little  interests  in  my  hands;  it's 
the  wisest  thing  ye  can  do.  Ask  for  Maister  Bishopriggs 
(that's  me)  when  ye  want  a  decent  'sponsible  man  to  gi'  ye  a 
word  of  advice.  Set  ye  doon  again — set.  ye  doon.  And  don't 
tak'  the  arm-chair.  Hech  !  hech  !  yer  husband  will  be  coming, 
ye  know,  and  he's  sure  to  want  it !"  With  that  seasonable 
pleasantry  the  venerable  Bishopriggs  winked,  and  went  out. 

Anne  looked  at  her  watch.  By  her  calculation  it  was  not 
far  from  the  hour  when  Geoffrey  might  be  expected  to  arrive 
at  the  inn,  assuming  Geoffrey  to  have  left  Windygates  at  the 
time  agreed  on,  A  little  more  patience,  and  the  landlady's 
scruples  would  be  satisfied,  and  the  ordeal  would  be  at  an  end. 

Could  she  have  met  him  nowhere  else  than  at  this  barbarous 
house,  and  among  these  barbarous  people? 

No,  Outside  the  doors  of  Windygates  she  had  not  a  friend 
to  help  her  in  all  Scotland.  There  was  no  place  at  her  dis- 
posal but  the  inn ;  and  she  had  only  to  be  thankful  that  it  oc- 
cupied a  sequestered  situation,  and  was  not  likely  to  be  visited 
by  any  of  Lady  Lundie's  friends.  Whatever  the  risk  might 
be,  the  end  in  view  justified  her  in  confronting  it.  Her  whole 
future  depended  on  Geoffrey's  making  an  honest  woman  of 
her.  Not  her  future  with  him — that  way  there  was  no  hope ; 
that  way  her  life  was  wasted.  Her  future  with  Blanche — she 
looked  forward  to  nothing  now  but  her  future  with  Blanche. 

Her  spirits  sank  lower  and  lower.  The  tears  rose  again.  It 
would  only  irritate  him  if  he  came  and  found  her  crying.  She 
tried  to  divert  her  mind  by  looking  about  the  room. 

There  was  very  little  to  see.  Except  that  it  was  solidly 
built  of  good  sound  stone,  the  Craig  Fernie  hotel  differed  in 
no  other  important  respect  from  the  average  of  second-rate 
English  inns.  There  was  the  usual  slippery  black  sofa — con- 
structed to  let  you  slide  when  you  wanted  to  rest.  There  was 
the  usual  highly-varnished  arm-chair,  expressly  manufactured 
to  test  the  endurance  of  the  human  spine.  There  was  the  usual 
paper  on  the  walls,  of  the  pattern  designed  to  make  your  eyes 
ache  and  your  head  giddy.  There  were  the  usual  engravings, 
which  humanity  never  tires  of  contemplating.  The  Royal 
Portrait,  in  the  first  place  of  honor.      The   next  greatest  of 


MAN   AND   WIFE.  103 

all  human  beiugs — the  Duke  of  Wellington  —  in  the  second 
place  of  honor.  The  third  greatest  of  all  human  beings — 
the  local  member  of  Parliament — in  the  third  place  of  honor ; 
and  a  hunting  scene  in  the  dark.  A  door  opposite  the  door 
of  admission  from  the  passage  opened  into  the  bedroom; 
and  a  window  at  the  side  looked  out  on  the  open  space  in 
front  of  the  hotel,  and  commanded  a  view  of  the  vast  expanse 
of  the  Craig  Fernie  moor,  stretching  away  below  the  rising 
ground  on  which  the  house  was  built. 

Anne  turned  in  despair  from  the  view  in  the  room  to  the 
view  from  the  window.  Within  the  last  half  hour  it  had 
changed  for  the  worse.  The  clouds  had  gathered ;  the  sun 
was  hidden  ;  the  light  on  the  landscape  was  gray  and  dull. 
Anne  turned  from  the  window,  as  she  had  turned  from  the 
room.  She  was  just  making  the  hopeless  attempt  to  rest  her 
weary  limbs  on  the  sofa,  when  the  sound  of  voices  and  foot- 
steps in  the  passage  caught  her  ear. 

Was  Geoffrey's  voice  among  them  ?    No. 

Were  the  strangers  coming  in  ? 

The  landlady  had  declined  to  let  her  have  the  rooms :  it  was 
quite  possible  that  the  strangers  might  be  coming  to  look  at 
them.  There  was  no  knowing  who  they  might  be.  In  the  im- 
pulse of  the  moment  she  flew  to  the  bed-chamber  and  locked 
herself  in. 

The  door  from  the  passage  opened,  and  Arnold  Brinkworth 
— shown  in  by  Mr.  Bishopriggs — entered  the  sitting-room. 

"  Nobody  here !"  exclaimed  Arnold,  looking  round.  "  Where 
is  she  ?" 

Mr.  Bishopriggs  pointed  to  the  bedroom  door.  "  Eh !  yer 
good  leddy's  joost  in  the  bed-chamber,  nae  doot !" 

Arnold  started.  He  had  felt  no  difficulty  (when  he  and 
Geoffrey  had  discussed  the  question  at  Windygates)  about 
presenting  himself  at  the  inn  in  the  assumed  character  of  Anne's 
husband.  But  the  result  of  putting  the  deception  in  practice 
was,  to  say  the  least  of  it,  a  little  embarrassing  at  first.  Here 
was  the  waiter  describing  Miss  Silvester  as  his  "good  lady;" 
and  leaving  it  (most  naturally  and  properly)  to  the  "good 
lady's"  husband  to  knock  at  her  bedroom  door,  and  tell  her 
that  he  was  there.  In  despair  of  knowing  what  else  to  do  at 
the  moment,  Arnold  asked  for  the  landlady,  whom  he  had  not 
seen  on  arriving  at  the  inn. 

"The  landleddy's  just  tottin'  up  the  ledgers  o'  the  bottle  in 
her  ain  room,"  answered  Mr,  Bishopriggs.  "  She'll  be  here 
anon — the  wearyful  woman  ! — speerin'  who  ye  are  and  what 
ye  are,  and  takin'  a'  the  business  o'  the  hoose  on  her  ain  pair 
o'  shouthers."  He  dropped  the  subject  of  the  landlady,  and 
put  in  a  plea  for  himself.     "  I  ha'  lookit  after  a'  the  leddy's 


104  MAN   AND   WIFE. 

little  comforts,  sir,"  he  whispered.  "Trust  in  me!  trust  in 
me!" 

Arnold's  attention  was  absorbed  in  the  very  serious  difficul- 
ty of  announcing  his  arrival  to  Anne.  "How  am  I  to  get  her 
out  ?"  he  said  to  himself,  with  a  look  of  perplexity  directed  at 
the  bedroom  door. 

He  had  spoken  loud  enough  for  the  waiter  to  hear  him, 
Arnold's  look  of  perplexity  was  instantly  reflected  on  the  face 
of  Mr.  Bishopriggs.  The  head-waiter  at  Craig  Fcrnie  possessed 
an  immense  experience  of  the  manners  and  customs  of  newly- 
manied  people  on  their  honey-moon  trip.  He  had  been  a  sec- 
ond father  (with  excellent  pecuniary  results)  to  innumerable 
brides  and  bridegrooms.  He  knew  young  married  couples  in 
all  their  varieties : — The  couples  who  try  to  behave  as  if  they 
had  been  married  for  many  years;  the  couples  who  attempt 
no  concealment,  and  take  advice  from  competent  authorities 
about  them.  The  couples  who  are  bashfully  talkative  before 
third  persons;  the  couples  who  are  bashfully  silent  under  sim- 
ilar circumstances.  The  couples  who  don't  know  what  to  do ; 
the  couples  who  wish  it  was  over;  the  couples  who  must  never 
be  intruded  upon  without  careful  preliminary  knocking  at  the 
door ;  the  couples  who  can  eat  and  drink  in  the  intervals  of 
"bliss,"  and  the  other  couples  who  ca)t''t.  But  the  bridegroom 
who  stood  helpless  on  one  side  of  the  door,  and  the  bride  who 
remained  locked  in  on  the  other,  were  new  varieties  of  the 
nuptial  species,  even  in  the  vast  experience  of  Mr.  Bishopriggs 
himself 

"Hoo  are  ye  to  get  her  oot?"  he  repeated.  "I'll  show  ye 
hoo  !"  He  advanced  as  rapidly  as  his  gouty  feet  would  let 
him,  and  knocked  at  the  bedroom  door.  "  Eh,  my  leddy  !  here 
he  is  in  flesh  and  bluid.  Mercy  preserve  us !  do  ye  lock  the 
door  of  the  nuptial-chamber  in  your  husband's  face?" 

At  that  unanswerable  appeal  the  lock  was  heard  turning 
in  the  door.  Mr.  Bishopriggs  M'inked  at  Arnold  with  his  one 
available  eye,  and  laid  his  forefinger  knowingly  along  his  enor- 
mous nose.  "  I'm  away  before  she  falls  into  your  arms  !  Rely 
on  it,  I'll  no  come  in  again  without  knocking  first !" 

He  left  Arnold  alone  in  the  room.  The  bedroom  door  opened 
slowly  by  a  few  inches  at  a  time.  Anne's  voice  was  just  audi- 
ble, speaking  cautiously  behind  it. 

"  Is  that  you,  Geoffi-ey  ?" 

Arnold's  heart  began  to  beat  fast,  in  anticipation  of  the  dis- 
closure which  was  now  close  at  hand.  He  knew  neither  what 
to  say  or  do — he  remained  silent. 

Anne  repeated  the  question  in  louder  tones : 

"Is  that  you?" 

There  was  the  certain  prospect  of  alarming  her,  if  some 


MAN    AND    WIFE,  105 

reply  was  not  given.  There  Avas  no  help  for  it.  Come  what 
come  might,  Arnold  answered,  in  a  whisper : 

«  Yes," 

The  door  was  flung  wide  open.  Anne  Silvester  appeared 
on  the  threshold,  confronting  him. 

"  Mr.  Brinkworth  !! !"  she  exclaimed,  standing  petrified  with 
astonishment. 

For  a  moment  more  neither  of  them  spoke.  Anne  advanced 
one  step  into  the  sitting-room,  and  put  the  next  inevitable 
question,  with  an  instantaneous  change  from  surprise  to  sus- 
picion. 

"What  do  you  want  here?" 

Geofi'rey's  letter  represented  the  only  possible  excuse  for 
Arnold's  appearance  in  that  place,  and  at  that  time. 

"  I  have  got  a  letter  for  you,"  he  said  —  and  oflered  it  to 
her. 

She  was  instantly  on  her  guard.  They  were  little  better 
than  strangers  to  each  other,  as  Arnold  had  said.  A  sickening 
presentiment  of  some  treachery  on  Geoffrey's  part  struck  cold 
to  her  heart.     She  refused  to  take  the  letter. 

"  I  expect  no  letter,"  she  said.  "  Who  told  you  I  was  here  ?" 
She  put  the  question,  not  only  with  a  tone  of  suspicion,  but 
with  a  look  of  contempt.  The  look  was  not  an  easy  one  for  a 
man  to  bear.  It  required  a  momentary  exertion  of  self-con- 
trol on  Arnold's  part,  before  he  could  trust  himself  to  answer 
with  due  consideration  for  her.  "  Is  there  a  watch  set  on  my 
actions?"  she  went  on,  with  rising  anger.  "And  are  you  the 
spy?" 

"  You  haven't  known  me  very  long.  Miss  Silvester,"  Arnold 
answered,  quietly.  "  But  you  ought  to  know  me  better  than 
to  say  that.     I  am  the  bearer  of  a  letter  from  Geoffrey." 

She  was  on  the  point  of  following  his  example,  and  of  speak- 
ing of  Geoffrey  by  his  Christian  name,  on  her  side.  But  she 
checked  herself  before  the  word  had  passed  her  lips. 

"  Do  vou  mean  Mr,  Delamayn  ?"  she  asked,  coldly, 

"  Yes,'" 

"  What  occasion  have  I  for  a  letter  from  Mr.  Delamayn  ?" 

She  was  determined  to  acknowledge  nothing — she  kept  him 
obstinately  at  arms-length,  Arnold  did,  as  a  matter  of  in- 
stinct, what  a  man  of  larger  experience  would  have  done  as  a 
matter  of  calculation  —  he  closed  with  her  boldly,  then  and 
there, 

"  Miss  Silvester  !  it's  no  nse  beating  about  the  bush.  If  you 
won't  take  the  letter,  you  force  me  to  speak  out.  I  am  here 
on  a  very  unpleasant  errand.  I  begin  to  wish,  from  the  bot- 
tom of  my  heart,  I  had  never  undertaken  it." 

A  quick  spasm  of  pain  passed  across  her  face.     She  was  be- 


106  MAN    AND    WIPE. 

ginning,  dimly  beginning,  to  understand  him.  He  hesitated. 
His  generous  nature  shrank  from  hurting  her. 

"  Go  on,"  she  said,  with  an  effort. 

"  Try  not  to  be  angry  with  me.  Miss  Silvester.  Geoffrey 
and  I  are  old  friends.     Geoffrey  knows  he  can  trust  me — " 

"  Trust  you  ?"  she  interposed.     "  Stop !" 

Arnold  waited.     She  went  on,  speaking  to  herself,  not  to  him. 

"  When  I  was  in  the  other  room  I  asked  if  Geoffrey  was 
there.  And  this  man  answered  for  him."  She  sprang  forward 
with  a  cry  of  horror. 

"  Has  he  told  you—" 

"  For  God's  sake,  read  his  letter !" 

She  violently  pushed  back  the  hand  with  which  Arnold  once 
more  offered  the  letter.  "  You  don't  look  at  me !  He  has 
told  you !" 

"  Read  his  letter,"  persisted  Arnold.  "  In  justice  to  him,  if 
you  won't  in  justice  to  me." 

The  situation  was  too  painful  to  be  endured.  Arnold  looked 
at  her,  this  time,  with  a  man's  resolution  in  his  eyes — spoke  to 
her,  this  time,  with  a  man's  resolution  in  his  voice.  She  took 
the  letter. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  sir,"  she  said,  with  a  sudden  humiliation 
of  tone  and  manner,  inexpressibly  shocking,  inexpressibly  piti- 
able to  see.  "  I  understand  my  position  at  last.  I  am  a  wom- 
an doubly  betrayed.  Please  to  excuse  what  I  said  to  you  just 
now,  when  I  supposed  myself  to  have  some  claim  on  your  re- 
spect. Perhaps  you  will  grant  me  your  pity  ?  I  can  ask  for 
nothing  more." 

Arnold  was  silent.  Words  were  useless  in  the  face  of  such 
utter  self-abandonment  as  this.  Any  man  living — even  Geof- 
frey himself — must  have  felt  for  her  at  that  moment. 

She  looked  for  the  first  time  at  the  letter.  She  opened  it  on 
the  wrong  side.  "  My  own  letter  !"  she  said  to  herself.  "  In 
the  hands  of  another  man  !" 

"  Look  at  the  last  page,"  said  Arnold. 

She  turned  to  the  last  page,  and  read  the  hurried  penciled 
lines.  "Villain!  villain!  villain!"  At  the  third  repetition  of  the 
word,  she  crushed  the  letter  in  the  palm  of  her  hand,  and  flung 
it  from  her  to  the  other  end  of  the  room.  The  instant  after, 
the  fire  that  had  flamed  up  in  her  died  out.  Feebly  and  slow- 
ly she  reached  out  her  hand  to  the  nearest  chair,  and  sat  down 
in  it  with  her  back  to  Arnold.  "  He  has  deserted  me  !"  was 
all  she  said.  The  words  fell  low  and  quiet  on  the  silence : 
they  were  the  utterance  of  an  immeasurable  despair. 

"  You  are  wrong !"  exclaimed  Arnold.  "  Indeed,  indeed  you 
are  wrong !  It's  no  excuse — it's  the  truth.  I  was  present 
when  the  messasre  came  about  his  father." 


MAN    AND    WIFE.  lOY 

She  never  heeded  him,  and  never  moved.  She  only  repeat- 
ed the  words  : 

"He  has  deserted  me  !" 

"  Don't  take  it  in  that  way  !"  pleaded  Arnold — "  pray  don't ! 
It's  dreadful  to  hear  you ;  it  is  indeed.  I  am  sure  he  has  not 
deserted  you."  There  was  no  answer ;  no  sign  that  she  heard 
him  :  she  sat  there,  struck  to  stone.  It  was  impossible  to  call 
the  landlady  in  at  such  a  moment  as  this.  In  despair  of  know- 
ing how  else  to  rouse  her,  Arnold  drew  a  chair  to  her  side,  and 
patted  her  timidly  on  the  shoulder.  "  Come !"  he  said,  in  his 
single-hearted,  boyish  way — "  cheer  up  a  little  !" 

She  slowly  turned  her  head,  and  looked  at  him  with  a  dull 
surprise. 

"  Didn't  you  say  he  had  told  you  every  thing?"  she  asked. 

"  Yes." 

"  Don't  you  despise  a  woman  like  me  ?" 

Arnold's  heart  went  back,  at  that  dreadful  question,  to  the 
one  woman  who  was  eternally  sacred  to  him — to  the  woman 
from  whose  bosom  he  had  drawn  the  breath  of  life. 

"Does  the  man  live,"  he  said,  "who  can  think  of  his  mother 
— and  despise  women  ?" 

That  answer  set  the  prisoned  misery  in  her  free.  She  gave 
him  her  hand — she  faintly  thanked  him.  The  merciful  tears 
came  to  her  at  last. 

Arnold  rose,  and  turned  away  to  the  window  in  despair. 
"I  mean  well,"  he  said.     "And  yet  I  only  distress  her !" 

She  heard  him,  and  struggled  to  compose  herself.  "  No," 
she  answered,  "  you  comfort  me.  Don't  mind  my  crying — I'm 
the  better  for  it."  She  looked  round  at  him  gratefully.  "  I 
won't  distress  you,  Mr.  Brinkworth.  I  ought  to  thank  you — 
and  I  do.  Come  back,  or  I  shall  think  you  are  angry  with  me." 
Arnold  went  back  to  her.  She  gave  him  her  hand  once  more. 
"  One  doesn't  understand  people  all  at  once,"  she  said,  simply. 
"  I  thought  you  were  like  other  men — I  didn't  know  till  to-day 
how  kind  you  could  be.  Did  you  walk  here  ?"  she  added,  sud- 
denly, with  an  effort  to  change  the  subject.  "Are  you  tired  ? 
I  have  not  been  kindly  received  at  this  place — but  I'm  sure  I 
may  offer  you  whatever  the  inn  affords." 

It  was  impossible  not  to  feel  for  her — it  was  impossible  not 
to  be  interested  in  her.  Arnold's  honest  longing  to  help  her 
expressed  itself  a  little  too  openly  when  he  spoke  next.  "All 
I  want,  Miss  Silvester,  is  to  be  of  some  service  to  you,  if  I  can," 
he  said.  "  Is  there  any  thing  I  can  do  to  make  your  position 
here  more  comfortable?  You  will  stay  at  this  place,  won't 
you  ?     Geoffrey  wishes  it." 

She  shuddered,  and  looked  away.  "  Yes !  yes !"  she  answer- 
ed, hurriedly. 


108  MAN    AND    WIFE. 

"  You  will  hear  from  Geoffrey,'"  Arnold  went  on,  "  to-mor- 
row or  next  day.     I  know  he  means  to  write." 

"  For  Heaven's  sake,  don't  speak  of  him  any  more  !"  she 
cried  out.  "  How  do  you  think  I  can  look  you  in  the  face — " 
Her  cheeks  flushed  deep,  and  her  eyes  rested  on  him  with  a 
momentary  firmness.  "  Mind  this  !  I  am  his  wife,  if  promises 
can  make  me  his  wife  !  He  has  pledged  his  word  to  me  by 
all  that  is  sacred  !"  She  checked  herself  impatiently.  "What 
am  I  saying  ?  What  interest  can  you  have  in  this  miserable 
state  of  things  ?  Don't  let  us  talk  of  it !  I  have  something 
else  to  say  to  you.  Let  us  go  back  to  my  troubles  here.  Did 
you  see  the  landlady  when  you  came  in  ?" 

"No.     I  only  saw  the  waiter." 

"The  landlady  has  made  some  absurd  difficulty  about  let- 
ting me  have  these  rooms  because  I  came  here  alone." 

"  She  won't  make  any  difficulty  now,"  said  Arnold.  "  I  have 
settled  that." 

''Your 

Arnold  smiled.  After  what  had  passed,  it  was  an  indescrib- 
able relief  to  him  to  see  the  humorous  side  of  his  own  position 
at  the  inn. 

"  Certainly,"  he  answered.  "  When  I  asked  for  the  lady 
who  had  arrived  here  alone  this  afternoon — " 

"  Yes." 

"  I  was  told,  in  your  interests,  to  ask  for  her  as  my  wife." 

Anne  looked  at  him — in  alarm  as  well  as  in  surprise. 

"  You  asked  for  me  as  your  wife  ?"  she  repeated. 

"Yes.  I  haven't  done  wrong — have  I?  As  I  understood 
it,  there  was  no  alternative.  Geofl:Vey  told  me  yon  had  settled 
with  him  to  present  yourself  here  as  a  married  lady,  whose 
husband  was  coming  to  join  her." 

"  I  thought  oihim  when  I  said  that.    I  never  thought  of  yo?<." 

"Natural  enough.  Still,  it  comes  to  the  same  thing  (doesn't 
it?)  with  the  people  of  this  house." 

"  I  don't  understand  you." 

"I  will  try  and  explain  myself  a  little  better.  Geoffrey 
said  your  position  here  depended  on  my  asking  for  you  at  the 
door  (as  he  would  have  asked  for  you  if  he  had  come)  in  the 
character  of  your  husband." 

"  He  had  no  right  to  say  that." 

"  No  right?  After  what  you  have  told  me  of  the  landlady, 
just  think  what  might  have  happened  if  he  had  not  said  it! 
I  haven't  had  much  experience  myself  of  these  things.  But — 
allow  me  to  ask — wouldn't  it  have  been  a  little  awkward  (at 
my  age)  if  I  had  come  here  and  inquired  for  you  as  a  friend  ? 
Don't  you  think,  in  that  case,  the  landlady  might  have  made 
some  additional  difficulty  about  letting  you  have  the  rooms  ?" 


MAN    AND    WIFE.  109 

It  was  beyond  dispute  that  the  landlady  would  have  refused 
to  let  the  rooms  at  all.  It  was  equally  plain  that  the  decep- 
tion which  Arnold  had  practiced  on  the  people  of  the  inn  was 
a  deception  which  Anne  had  herself  rendered  necessary,  in  her 
own  interests.  She  was  not  to  blame ;  it  was  clearly  impos- 
sible for  her  to  have  foreseen  such  an  event  as  Geoffrey's  de- 
parture for  London.  Still,  she  felt  an  uneasy  sense  of  respon- 
sibility— a  vague  dread  of  what  might  happen  next.  She  sat 
nervously  twisting  her  handkerchief  in  her  lap,  and  made  no 
answer. 

"Don't  suppose  I  object  to  this  little  stratagem,"  Arnold 
went  on.  "  I  am  serving  my  old  friend,  and  I  am  helping  the 
lady  who  is  soon  to  be  his  wife." 

Anne  rose  abruptly  to  her  feet,  and  amazed  him  by  a  very 
unexpected  question. 

"Mr.  Brinkworth,"  she  said,  "  forgive  me  the  rudeness  of 
something  I  am  about  to  say  to  you.  When  are  you  going 
away  ?" 

Arnold  burst  out  laughing. 

"  When  I  am  quite  sure  I  can  do  nothing  more  to  assist  you," 
he  answered. 

"Pray  don't  think  of  me  any  longer." 

"  In  your  situation  !  who  else  am  I  to  think  of?" 

Anne  laid  her  hand  earnestly  on  his  arm,  and  answered : 

"  Blanche  !" 

"  Blanche  ?"  repeated  Arnold,  utterly  at  a  loss  to  under- 
stand her. 

"  Yes — Blanche.  She  found  time  to  tell  me  what  had  pass- 
ed between  you  this  morning  before  I  left  Windygates.  I 
know  you  have  made  her  an  offer.  I  know  you  are  engaged 
to  be  married  to  her." 

Arnold  was  delighted  to  hear  it.  He  had  been  merely  un- 
willing to  leave  her  thus  far.  He  was  absolutely  determined 
to  stay  with  her  now. 

"  Don't  expect  me  to  go,  after  that !"  he  said.  "  Come  and 
sit  down  again,  and  let's  talk  about  Blanche." 

Anne  declined  impatiently,  by  a  gesture.  Arnold  was  too 
deeply  interested  in  the  new  topic  to  take  any  notice  of  it. 

"  You  know  all  about  her  habits  and  her  tastes,"  he  went 
on,  "and  what  she  likes,  and  what  she  dislikes.  It's  most  im- 
portant that  I  should  talk  to  you  about  her.  When  we  are 
husband  and  wife,  Blanche  is  to  have  all  her  own  way  in  ev- 
ery thing.  That's  ray  idea  of  the  Whole  Duty  of  Man — when 
Man  is  married.  You  are  still  standing  ?  Let  me  give  you  a 
chair." 

It  was  cruel — under  other  circumstances  it  would  have  been 
impossible — to  disappoint  him.     But  the  vague  fear  of  conse- 


110  MAN    AND    WIFE. 

quences  which  had  taken  possession  of  Anne  was  not  to  be 
trifled  with.  She  had  no  clear  conception  of  the  risk  (and  it 
is  to  be  added,  in  justice  to  Geoffrey,  that  he  had  no  clear  con- 
ception of  the  isk)  on  which  Arnold  had  unconsciously  ven- 
tured, in  undertaking  his  errand  to  the  inn.  Neither  of  them 
had  any  adequate  idea  (i^w  people  have)  of  the  infiimous  ab- 
sence of  all  needful  warning,  of  all  decent  precaution  and  re- 
straint, which  makes  the  marriage  law  of  Scotland  a  trap  to 
catch  unmarried  men  and  women,  to  this  day.  But,  while 
Geoffrey's  mind  was  incapable  of  looking  beyond  the  present 
emergency,  Anne's  finer  intelligence  told  her  that  a  country 
which  offered  such  facilities  for  private  marriage  as  the  facili- 
ties of  which  she  had  proposed  to  take  advantage  in  her  own 
case,  was  not  a  country  in  which  a  man  could  act  as  Arnold 
had  acted,  without  danger  of  some  serious  embarrassment  fol- 
lowing as  the  possible  result.  With  this  motive  to  animate 
her,  she  resolutely  declined  to  take  the  offered  chair,  or  to  en- 
ter into  the  proposed  conversation. 

"  Whatever  we  have  to  say  about  Blanche,  Mr.  Brinkworth, 
must  be  said  at  some  fitter  time.     I  beg  you  will  leave  me." 

"  Leave  you !" 

"Yes.  Leave  me  to  the  solitude  that  is  best  for  me,  and  to 
the  sorrow  that  I  have  deserved.     Thank  you — and  good-bye." 

Arnold  made  no  attempt  to  disguise  his  disappointment  and 
surprise. 

"  If  I  must  go,  I  must,"  he  said.  "But  v>'hy  are  you  in  such 
a  hui-ry  ?" 

"  I  don't  want  you  to  call  me  your  wife  again  before  the 
people  of  this  inn." 

"Is  that  all?     What  on  earth  are  you  afraid  of?" 

She  was  unable  full)'  to  realize  her  own  apprehensions.  She 
was  doubly  unable  to  express  them  in  words.  Li  her  anxiety 
to  produce  some  reason  which  might  prevail  on  him  to  go,  she 
drifted  back  into  that  very  conversation  about  Blanche  into 
which  she  had  declined  to  enter  but  the  moment  before. 

"I  have  reasons  for  being  afraid,"  she  said.  "One  that  I 
can't  give  ;  and  one  that  I  can.  Suppose  Blanche  heard  of 
what  you  have  done  ?  The  longer  you  stay  here — the  more 
people  you  see — the  more  chance  there  is  that  she  might  hear 
of  it." 

"And  what  if  she  did?"  asked  Arnold,  in  his  own  straight- 
forward way.  "  Do  you  think  she  would  be  angry  with  me 
for  making  myself  useful  to  you?'''' 

"Yes,"  rejoined  Anne,  sharply,  "  if  she  was  jealous  of  me.'" 

Arnold's  unlimited  belief  in  Blanche  expressed  itself,  without 
the  slightest  compromise,  in  two  words: 

"That's  impossible!" 


MAN    AND    WIFK.  Ill 

Anxious  as  she  was,  miserable  as  she  was,  a  faint  smile  flit- 
ted over  Anne's  face. 

"  Sir  Patrick  would  tell  you,  Mr.  Brinkworth,  that  nothing 
is  impossible  where  women  are  concerned."  She  dropped  her 
momentary  lightness  of  tone,  and  went  on  as  earnestly  as  ever. 
"  You  can't  put  yourself  in  Blanche's  place  —  I  can.  Once 
more,  I  beg  you  to  go.  I  don't  like  your  coming  here  in  this 
way  !    I  don't  like  it  at  all !" 

She  held  out  her  hand  to  take  leave.  At  the  same  moment 
there  was  a  loud  knock  at  the  door  of  the  room. 

Anne  sank  into  the  chair  at  her  side,  and  uttered  a  faint  cry 
of  alarm.  Arnold,  perfectly  impenetrable  to  all  sense  of  his 
position,  asked  what  there  was  to  frighten  her — and  answered 
the  knock  in  the  two  customary  words, 

«  Come  in !" 


CHAPTER  THE  TENTH. 

MK.  BISHOPEIGGS. 


The  knock  at  the  door  was  repeated — a  louder  knock  than 
before. 

"Are  you  deaf?"  shouted  Arnold. 

The  door  opened,  little  by  little,  an  inch  at  a  time.  Mr, 
Bishopriggs  appeared  mysteriov  sly,  with  the  cloth  for  dinner 
over  his  arm,  and  with  his  second  in  command  behind  him, 
bearing  "  the  furnishing  of  the  table "  (as  it  was  called  at 
Craig  Fernie)  on  a  tray. 

"What  the  deuce  were  you  waiting  for?"  asked  Arnold. 
"  I  told  you  to  come  in." 

"And  I  tauld  yo?/,"  answered  Mr.  Bishopriggs,  "that  I 
wadna  come  in  without  knocking  first.  Eh,  man  !"  he  went 
on,  dismissing  his  second  in  command,  and  laying  the  cloth 
with  his  own  venerable  hands,  "  d'ye  think  I've  lived  in  this 
bottle  in  blinded  eegnorance  of  hoo  young  married  couples 
pass  the  time  when  they're  left  to  themselves?  Twa  knocks 
at  the  door — and  an  unco  trouble  in  opening  it,  after  that — is 
joost  the  least  ye  can  do  for  them !  Whar'  do  ye  think,  noo, 
I'll  set  the  places  for  you  and  your  leddy  there  ?" 

Anne  walked  away  to  the  window  in  undisguised  disgust. 
Arnold  found  Mr.  Bishopriggs  to  be  quite  irresistible.  He  an- 
swered, humoring  the  joke, 

"  One  at  the  top  and  one  at  the  bottom  of  the  table,  I 
suppose  ?" 

"  One  at  tap  and  one  at  bottom  ?"  repeated  Mr.  Bishopriggs, 
in  high  disdain.     "  De'il  a  bit  of  it !    Baith  yer  chairs  as  close 


112  MAN    AND   WIFE. 

together  as  chairs  can  be.  Hech !  hech ! — haven't  I  caught 
'em,  after  goodness  knows  hoo  many  preleeminary  knocks  at 
the  door,  dining  on  their  husbands'  knees,  and  steeraulating  a 
man's  appetite  by  feeding  him  at  the  fork's  end  like  a  child? 
Eh  !"  sighed  the  sage  of  Craig  Fernie,  "  it's  a  short  life  wi'  that 
nuptial  business,  and  a  merry  one !  A  month  for  yer  billin' 
and  cooin' ;  and  a'  the  rest  o'  yer  days  for  wondering  ye  were 
ever  such  a  fule,  and  wishing  it  was  a'  to  be  done  ower  again. 
— Ye'll  be  for  a  bottle  o'  sherry  wine,  nae  doot  ?  and  a  drap 
toddy  afterward,  to  do  yer  digestin'  on  ?" 

Arnold  nodded  —  and  then,  in  obedience  to  a  signal  from 
Anne,  joined  her  at  the  window.  Mr.  Bishopriggs  looked  after 
them  attentively — observed  that  they  were  talking  in  whispers 
— and  approved  of  that  proceeding,  as  representing  another  of 
the  established  customs  of  young  married  couples  at  inns,  in 
the  presence  of  third  persons  appointed  to  wait  on  them. 

"Ay!  ay!"  he  said,  looking  over  his  shoulder  at  Arnold, 
"gae  to  your  deerie  !  gae  to  your  deerie  !  and  leave  a'  the  solid 
business  o'  life  to  Me.  Ye've  Screepture  warrant  for  it.  A 
man  maun  leave  fether  and  mother  (I'm  yer  fether),and  cleave 
to  his  wife.  My  certie !  'cleave'  is  a  strong  word — there's 
nae  sort  o'  doot  aboot  it,  when  it  comes  to  '  cleaving  !'  "  He 
wagged  his  head  thoughtfully,  and  walked  to  the  side-table  in 
a  corner,  to  cut  the  bread. 

As  he  took  up  the  knife,  his  one  wary  eye  detected  a  morsel 
of  crumpled  paper,  lying  lost  between  the  table  and  the  wall. 
It  was  the  letter  from  Geoffrey,  which  Anne  had  flung  from 
her,  in  the  first  indignation  of  reading  it — and  which  neither 
she  nor  Arnold  had  thought  of  since, 

"What's  that  I  see  yonder?"  muttered  Mr.  Bishopriggs,  un- 
der his  breath.  "  Mair  litter  in  the  room,  after  I've  doosted 
and  tidied  it  wi'  my  ain  hands !" 

He  picked  up  the  crumpled  paper,  and  partly  opened  it. 
"Eh!  what's  here?  Writing  on  it  in  ink?  and  writing  on  it 
in  pencil?  Who  may  this  belong  to?"  He  looked  round 
cautiously  toward  Arnold  and  Anne.  They  were  both  still 
talking  in  whispers,  and  both  standing  with  their  backs  to 
him,  looking  out  of  the  window.  "  Here  it  is,  clean  forgotten 
and  dune  with  !"  thought  Mr,  Bishopriggs,  "  Xoo  what  would 
a  fule  do,  if  he  fund  this?  A  fule  wad  light  his  pipe  wi'  it, 
and  then  wonder  whether  he  wadna  ha'  dune  better  to  read  it 
first.  And  what  wad  a  wise  man  do,  in  a  seemilar  position  ?" 
He  practically  answered  that  question  by  putting  the  letter 
into  his  pocket.  It  might  be  worth  keeping,  or  it  might  not; 
five  minutes'  private  examination  of  it  would  decide  the  al- 
ternative, at  the  first  convenient  opportunity.  "Am  gaun'  to 
breen.qr  tt^e  dinner  in  !"  he  called  out  to  Arnold.     "And,  mind 


MAN    AND    WIFE.  115 

ye,  there's  nae  knocking  at  the  door  possible,  when  I've  got 
the  tray  in  baith  my  hands,  and,  mair's  the  pity,  the  gout  in 
baith  my  feet."  With  that  friendly  warning,  Mr.  Bishopriggs 
went  his  way  to  the  regions  of  the  kitchen. 

Arnold  continued  his  conversation  with  Anne,  in  terms 
which  showed  that  the  question  of  his  leaving  the  inn  had 
been  the  question  once  move  discussed  between  them  while 
they  were  standing  at  the  window. 

"  You  see  we  can't  help  it,"  he  said.  "  The  waiter  has  gone 
to  bring  the  dinner  in.  What  will  they  think  in  the  house  if 
I  go  away  already,  and  leave  'my  wife'  to  dine  alone?" 

It  was  so  plainly  necessary  to  keep  up  appearances  for  the 
present,  that  there  was  nothing  more  to  be  said.  Arnold  was 
committing  a  serious  imprudence — and  yet,  on  this  occasion, 
Arnold  was  right.  Anne's  annoyance  "at  feeling  that  conclu- 
sion forced  on  her  produced  the  first  betrayal  of  impatience 
which  she  had  shown  yet.  She  left  Arnold  at  the  window, 
and  flung  herself  on  the  sofa.  "A  curse  seems  to  follow  me !" 
she  thought, bitterly.  "This  will  end  ill — and  I  shall  be  an- 
swerable for  it !" 

In  the  mean  time  Mr,  Bishopriggs  had  found  the  dinner  in 
the  kitchen,  ready,  and  waiting  for  him.  Instead  of  at  once 
taking  the  tray  on  which  it  was  placed  into  the  sitting-room, 
he  conveyed  it  privately  into  his  own  pantry,  and  shut  the 
door. 

"  Lie  ye  there,  mj'  freend,  till  the  spare  moment  comes — and 
I'll  look  at  ye  again,"  he  said,  putting  the  letter  away  careful- 
ly in  the  dresser-drawer.  "  Xoo  aboot  the  dinner  o'  they  twu 
turtle-doves  in  the  parlor?"  he  continued,  dii-ecting  his  atten- 
tion to  the  dinner-tray.  "  I  maun  joost  see  that  the  cook's 
dune  her  duty — the  creatures  are  no'  capable  o'  decidin'  that 
knotty  point  for  their  ain  selves."  He  took  oiFone  of  the  cov- 
ers, and  picked  bits,  here  and  therc^,  out  of  the  dish  with  the 
fork.  "  Eh  !  eh  !  the  collops  are  no'  that  bad  !"  He  took  oW 
another  cover,  and  shook  his  head  in  solemn  doubt.  "  Here's 
the  green  meat.  I  doot  green  meat's  windy  diet  for  a  man  at 
my  time  o'  life  !"  He  put  the  cover  on  again,  and  tried  the 
next  dish.  "The  fesh?  What  the  de'il  does  the  woman  fry 
the  trout  for?  Boil  it  next  time,  ye  betch,  wi'  a  pinch  o'  saut 
and  a  spunefu'  o'  vinegar."  He  drew  the  cork  from  a  bottle 
of  sherry,  and  decanted  the  wine.  "The  sherry-wine?"  he 
said,  in  tones  of  deep  feeling,  holding  the  decanter  up  to  the 
light.  "  Hoo  do  I  know  but  what  it  may  be  corkit  ?  I  maun 
taste  and  try.  It's  on  my  conscience,  as  an  honest  man,  to 
taste  and  try."  He  forthwith  relieved  his  conscience — copi- 
ously. There  was  a  vacant  space,  of  no  inconsiderable  dimen- 
sions, left  in  the  decanter,  Mr.  Bishopriggs  gravely  filled  it 
H 


114  MAN   AND  WIFB. 

up  from  the  water-bottle.  "  Eh !  it's  joost  addin'  ten  years  to 
the  age  o'  the  wine.  The  turtle-doves  will  be  nane  the  waur 
— and  I  raysel'  am  a  glass  o'  sherry  the  better.  Praise  Provi- 
dence for  a'  its  maircies !"  Having  relieved  himself  of  that 
devout  aspiration,  he  took  up  the  tray  again,  and  decided  on 
letting  the  turtle-doves  have  their  dinner. 

The  conversation  in  the  parlor  (dropped  for  the  moment) 
had  been  renewed,  in  the  absence  of  Mr.  Bishopriggs.  Too 
restless  to  remain  long  in  one  place,  Anne  had  risen  again  from 
the  sofa,  and  had  rejoined  Arnold  at  the  window. 

"  Where  do  your  friends  at  Lady  Lundie's  believe  you  to  be 
now  ?"  she  asked,  abruptly. 

"  I  am  believed,"  replied  Arnold, "  to  be  meeting  my  tenants, 
and  taking  possession  of  my  estate." 

"  How  are  you  to  get  to  your  estate  to-night  ?" 

"  By  railway,  I  suppose.  By-the-bye,  what  excuse  am  I  to 
make  for  going  away  after  dinner  ?  We  are  sure  to  have  the 
landlady  in  here  before  long.  What  will  she  say  to  my  go- 
ing off  by  myself  to  the  train,  and  leaving  '  my  wife '  behind 
me?" 

"  Mr.  Brinkworth !  that  joke — if  it  is  a  joke — is  worn  out !" 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  said  Arnold. 

"  You  may  leave  your  excuse  to  me,"  pursued  Anne.  "  Do 
you  go  by  the  up  train,  or  the  down  ?" 

"  By  the  up  train." 

The  door  opened  suddenly ;  and  Mr.  Bishopriggs  appeared 
with  the  dinner.  Anne  nervously  separated  herself  from  Ar- 
nold. The  one  available  eye  of  Mr.  Bishopriggs  followed  her 
reproachfully,  as  he  put  the  dishes  on  the  table. 

"  I  warned  ye  baith,  it  was  a  clean  impossibility  to  knock  at 
the  door  this  time.  Don't  blame  me,  young  madam — don't 
blame  me .'" 

"  Where  will  you  sit  ?"  asked  Arnold,  by  way  of  diverting 
Anne's  attention  from  the  familiarities  of  Father  Bishopriggs. 

"Anywhere!"  she  answered,  impatiently;  snatching  up  a 
chair,  and  placing  it  at  the  bottom  of  the  table. 

Mr.  Bishopriggs  politely,  but  firmly,  put  the  chair  back 
again  in  its  place. 

"  Lord's  sake  !  what  are  ye  doin'  ?  It's  clean  contrary  to  a' 
the  laws  and  customs  o'  the  honey-mune,  to  sit  as  far  away 
from  your  husband  as  that !" 

He  waved  his  persuasive  napkin  to  one  of  the  two  chairs 
placed  close  together  at  the  table.  Arnold  interfered  once 
more,  and  prevented  another  outbreak  of  impatience  from 
Anne. 

"  What  does  it  matter?"  he  said.  "Let  the  man  have  his 
way." 


MAN   AND   WIFE,  117 

"  Get  it  over  as  soon  as  you  can,"  she  returned.  "  I  can't, 
and  won't,  bear  it  much  longer." 

They  took  their  places  at  tlie  table,  with  Father  Bishopriggs 
behind  thera,  in  the  mixed  character  of  major-domo  and  guard- 
ian angel. 

"  Here's  the  trout !"  he  cried,  taking  the  cover  off  with  a 
flourish.  "  Half  an  hour  since,  he  was  loupin'  in  the  water. 
There  he  lies  noo,  fried  in  the  dish.  An  emblem  o'  human  life 
for  ye !  When  ye  can  spare  any  leisure  time  from  yer  twa 
selves,  meditate  on  that." 

Arnold  took  up  the  spoon,  to  give  Anne  one  of  the  trout. 
Mr.  Bishopriggs  clapped  the  cover  on  the  dish  again,  with  a 
countenance  expressive  of  devout  horror. 

"  Is  there  naebody  gaun'  to  say  grace  ?"  he  asked. 

"Come  !  come  !"  said  Arnold.     "The  fish  is  getting  cold." 

Mr.  Bishopriggs  piously  closed  his  available  eye,  and  held 
the  cover  firmly  on  the  dish.  "For  what  ye're  gaun'  to  re- 
ceive, may  ye  baith  be  truly  thankful !"  He  opened  his  avail- 
able eye,  and  whipped  the  cover  off  again.  "  My  conscience 
is  easy  noo.     Fall  to  !     Fall  to  !" 

"  Send  him  away  !"  said  Anne.  "  His  familiarity  is  beyond 
all  endurance." 

"You  needn't  wait,"  said  Arnold. 

"  Eh !  but  I'm  here  to  wait,"  objected  Mr.  Bishopriggs. 
"  What's  the  use  o'  my  gaun'  away,  when  ye'll  want  me  anon 
to  change  the  plates  for  ye?"  He  considered  for  a  moment 
(privately  consulting  his  experience) ;  and  arrived  at  a  satis- 
factory conclusion  as  to  Arnold's  motive  for  wanting  to  get 
rid  of  him.  "Tak'  her  on  yer  knee,"  he  whispered  in  Arnold's 
ear,  "  as  soon  as  ye  like !  Feed  him  at  the  fork's  end,"  he  add- 
ed to  Anne,  "  whenever  ye  please  !  I'll  think  of  something 
else,  and  look  out  at  the  proaspect."  He  winked — and  went 
to  the  window. 

"  Come  !  come  !"  said  Arnold  to  Anne.  "  There's  a  comic 
side  to  all  this.    Try  and  see  it  as  I  do." 

Mr.  Bishopriggs  returned  from  the  window,  and  announced 
the  appearance  of  a  new  element  of  embarrassment  in  the  situ- 
ation at  the  inn. 

"My  certie  !"  he  said,  "  it's  weel  ye  cam'  when  ye  did.  It's 
ill  getting  to  this  hottle  in  a  storm." 

Anne  started,  and  looked  round  at  him.  "A  storm  coming  !" 
she  exclaimed. 

"  Eh  !  ye're  well  hoosed  here — ye  needn't  mind  it.  There's 
the  cloud  down  the  valley,"  he  added,  pointing  out  of  the  win- 
dow, "  coming  up  one  way,  when  the  wind's  blawing  the  other. 
The  storm's  brewing,  my  leddy,  when  ye  see  that !" 

There  was  another  knock  at  the  door.  As  Arnold  hfld  p''e- 
dicted,  the  landlady  made  her  appearance  on  the  scene, 


118  MAN   AND   WIFB. 

"  I  ha'  just  lookit  in,  sir,"  said  Mrs.  Inchbare,  addressing  her- 
self exclusively  to  Arnold,  *'  to  see  ye've  got  what  ye  want." 

"  Oh  !  you  are  the  landlady  ?  Very  nice,  ma'am  —  very 
nice." 

Mistress  Inchbare  had  her  own  private  motive  for  entering 
the  room,  and  came  to  it  without  further  preface. 

"  Ye'll  excuse  me,  sir,"  she  proceeded.  "  I  wasna  in  the  way 
when  he  cam'  here,  or  I  suld  ha'  made  bauld  to  ask  ye  the 
question  which  I  maun  e'en  ask  noo.  Am  I  to  understand 
that  ye  hire  these  rooms  for  yersel',  and  this  leddy  here — yer 
wife?" 

Anne  raised  her  head  to  speak.  Arnold  pressed  her  hand 
warningly,  under  the  table,  and  silenced  her. 

"  Certainly,"  he  said.  "  I  take  the  rooms  for  myself,  and 
this  lady  here — my  wife  !" 

Anne  made  a  second  attempt  to  speak. 

"  This  gentleman — "  she  began. 

Arnold  stopped  her  for  the  second  time. 

"  This  gentleman  ?"  repeated  Mrs.  Inchbare,  with  a  broad 
stare  of  surprise.  "I'm  only  a  puir  woman,  my  leddy — d'ye 
mean  yer  husband  here  ?" 

Arnold's  warning  hand  touched  Anne's  for  the  third  time. 
Mistress  Inchbare's  eyes  remained  fixed  on  her  in  merciless  in- 
quiry. To  have  given  utterance  to  the  contradiction  which 
trembled  on  her  lips  would  have  been  to  involve  Arnold  (after 
all  that  he  had  sacrificed  for  her)  in  the  scandal  which  would 
inevitably  follow — a  scandal  which  would  be  talked  of  in  the 
neighborhood,  and  which  might  find  its  way  to  Blanche's  ears. 
White  and  cold,  her  eyes  never  moving  from  the  table,  she  ac- 
cepted the  landlady's  implied  correction,  and  faintly  repeated 
the  words :  "  My  husband." 

Mistress  Inchbare  drew  a  breath  of  virtuous  relief,  and  wait- 
ed for  what  Anne  had  to  say  next.  Arnold  came  considerate- 
ly to  the  rescue,  and  got  her  out  of  the  room. 

"Never  mind,"  he  said  to  Anne;  "I  know  what  it  is,  and 
I'll  see  about  it.  She's  always  like  this,  ma'am,  when  a  storm's 
coming,"  he  went  on,  turning  to  the  landlady.  "  No,  thank 
you — I  know  how  to  manage  her.  We'll  send  to  you,  if  we 
want  your  assistance." 

"  At  yer  ain  pleasure,  sir,"  answered  Mistress  Inchbare.  She 
turned,  and  apologized  to  Anne  (under  protest),  with  a  stiflf 
courtesy.  "  No  oflJense,  my  leddy  !  Ye'll  remember  that  ye 
cam'  here  alane,  and  that  the  bottle  has  its  ain  gude  name  to 
keep  up."  Having  once  more  vindicated  "  the  bottle,"  she 
made  the  long-desired  move  to  the  door,  and  left  the  room. 

"  I'm  faint !"  Anne  whispered.     "  Give  me  some  water." 

There  was  no  water  on  the  table.     Arnold  ordered  it  of  Mr. 


MAN   AND   WIFE.  119 

Bishopriggs  —  who  had  remained  passive  in  the  background 
(a  model  of  discreet  attention)  as  long  as  the  mistress  was  in 
the  room. 

"Mr.  Brinkworth  !"  said  Anne,  when  they  were  alone,  "you 
are  acting  with  inexcusable  rashness.  That  woman's  question 
was  an  impertinence.  Why  did  you  answer  it?  Why  did 
you  force  me —  ?" 

She  stopped,  unable  to  finish  the  sentence.  Arnold  insisted 
on  her  drinking  a  glass  of  wine — and  then  defended  himself 
with  the  patient  consideration  for  her  which  he  had  shown 
from  the  first. 

"Why  didn't  I  have  the  inn  door  shut  in  your  face" — he 
asked,  good-humoredly — "  with  a  storm  coming  on,  and  with- 
out a  place  in  which  you  can  take  refuge  ?  No,  no,  Miss  Sil- 
vester !  I  don't  presume  to  blame  you  for  any  scruples  you 
may  feel  —  but  scruples  are  sadly  out  of  place  with  such  a 
woman  as  that  landlady.  I  am  responsible  for  your  safety 
to  GeoflTrey;  and  Geoffrey  expects  to  find  you  here.  Let's 
change  the  subject.  The  water  is  a  long  time  coming.  Try 
another  glass  of  wine.  No  ?  Well — here  is  Blanche's  health  " 
(he  took  some  of  the  wine  himself),  "  in  the  weakest  sherry  I 
ever  drank  in  my  life."  As  he  set  down  his  glass,  Mr.  Bish- 
opriggs came  in  with  the  water.  Arnold  hailed  him  satirical- 
ly. "Well,  have  you  got  the  water?  or  have  you  used  it  all 
for  the  sherry  ?" 

Mr.  Bishopriggs  stopped  in  the  middle  of  the  room,  thunder- 
struck at  the  aspersion  cast  on  the  wine. 

"  Is  that  the  way  ye  talk  of  the  auldest  bottle  o'  sherry-wine 
in  Scotland  ?"  he  asked,  gravely.  "  What's  the  warld  coming 
to  ?  The  new  generation's  a  foot  beyond  my  fathoming.  The 
maircies  o'  Providence,  as  shown  to  man  in  the  choicest  veen- 
tages  o'  Spain,  are  clean  thrown  away  on  'em." 

"  Have  you  brought  the  water  ?" 

"  I  ha'  brought  the  water — and  mair  than  the  water.  I  ha' 
brought  ye  news  from  ootside.  There's  a  company  o'  gentle- 
men on  horseback,  joost  cantering  by  to  what  they  ca'  the 
shootin'  cottage,  a  mile  from  this." 

"Well,  and  what  have  we  got  to  do  with  it?" 

"  Bide  a  wee  !  There's  ane  o'  them  has  drawn  bridle  at  the 
bottle,  and  he's  speerin'  after  the  leddy  that  cam'  here  alane. 
The  leddy  s  your  leddy,  as  sure  as  saxpence.  I  doot,"  said  Mr 
Bishopriggs,  walking  away  to  the  window,  "  thafs  what's  ye've 
got  to  do  with  it." 

Arnold  looked  at  Anne. 

"  Do  you  expect  any  body  ?" 

"  Is  it  Geoffrey  ?" 

"  Impossible.     Geoffrey  is  on  his  way  to  London." 


120  MAN    AND    WIFE. 

"  There  he  is,  any  way,"  resumed  Mr,  Bishopriggs,  at  the 
window.  "He's  loupin'  down  from  his  horse.  He's  turning 
this  way.  Lord  save  us  !"  he  exclaimed,  with  a  start  of  con- 
sternation, "  what  do  I  see?  That  incarnate  deevil,  Sir  Pait- 
rick  himself!" 

Arnold  sprang  to  his  feet. 

"  Do  you  mean  Sir  Patrick  Lundie  ?" 

Anne  ran  to  the  window. 

"  It  is  Sir  Patrick !"  she  said.  "  Hide  yourself  before  he 
comes  in !" 

"Hide  myself?" 

"  What  will  he  think  if  he  sees  you  with  r/«e.^" 

He  was  Blanche's  guardian,  and  he  believed  Arnold  to  be  at 
that  moment  visiting  his  new  property.  What  he  would  think 
was  not  difficult  to  foresee.  Arnold  turned  for  help  to  Mr. 
Bishopriggs. 

"  Where  can  I  go  ?" 

Mr.  Bishopriggs  pointed  to  the  bedroom  door. 

"  Whar'  can  ye  go  ?     There's  the  nuptial-chamber !" 

"  Impossible !" 

Mr.  Bishopriggs  expressed  the  utmost  extremity  of  human 
amazement  by  a  long  whistle,  on  one  note. 

"  Whew !  Is  that  the  way  ye  talk  o'  the  nuptial-chamber 
already?" 

"  Find  me  some  other  place — I'll  make  it  worth  your  while." 

"  Eh  !  there's  my  paintry !  I  trow  that's  some  other  place ; 
and  the  door's  at  the  end  o'  the  passage." 

Arnold  hurried  out.  Mr.  Bishopriggs — evidently  under  the 
impression  that  the  case  before  him  was  a  case  of  elopement, 
with  Sir  Patrick  mixed  up  in  it  in  the  capacity  of  guardian — 
addressed  himself,  in  friendly  confidence,  to  Anne. 

"  My  certie,  mistress  !  it's  ill  wark  deceivin'  Sir  Paitrick,  if 
that's  what  ye've  dune.  Ye  must  know,  I  was  ance  a  bit  clerk 
body  in  his  chambers  at  Embro — " 

The  voice  of  Mistress  Inchbare,  calling  for  the  head-waiter, 
rose  shrill  and  imperative  from  the  regions  of  the  bar.  Mr, 
Bishopriggs  disappeared.  Anne  remained,  standing  helpless 
by  .the  M'indow.  It  was  plain  by  this  time  that  the  place  of 
her  retreat  had  been  discovered  at  Windygates.  The  one 
doubt  to  decide,  now,  was  whether  it  would  be  wise  or  not  to 
receive  Sir  Patrick,  for  the  purpose  of  discovering  whether  he 
came  as  friend  or  enemy  to  the  inn. 


MAN   AND   WIFE.  121 


CHAPTER  THE  ELEVENTH. 

SIK  PATEICK. 

The  doubt  was  practically  decided  before  Anne  had  deter- 
mined what  to  do.  She  was  still  at  the  window  when  the  sit- 
ting-room door  Avas  thrown  open,  and  Sir  Patrick  appeared,  ob- 
sequiously shown  in  by  Mr.  Bishopriggs. 

"Ye're  kindly  welcome.  Sir  Paitrick.  Hech,  sirs  !  the  sight 
oi  von  is  gude  for  sair  eyne." 

Sir  Patrick  turned  and  looked  at  Mi-.  Bisliopriggs — as  lie 
might  have  looked  at  some  troublesome  insect  which  he  had 
driven  out  of  the  window,  and  which  liad  i-etui-ned  on  him 
again. 

"What,  you  scoundrel !  have  you  drifted  into  an  honest  em- 
ployment at  last  ?" 

Mr.  Bishopriggs  rubbed  his  hands  cheerfully,  and  took  his 
tone  from  his  superior,  with  supple  readiness. 

"Ye're  always  in  the  right  of  it,  Sir  Paitrick!  Wut,  raal 
wut  in  that  aboot  the  honest  employment,  and  me  drifting  into 
it.     Lord's  sake,  sir,  hoo  well  ye  wear  !" 

Dismissing  Mr.  Bishopriggs  by  a  sign.  Sir  Patrick  advanced 
to  Anne. 

"I  am  committing  an  intrusion,  madam,  which  must,  I  am 
afraid,  appear  unpardonable  in  your  eyes,"  he  said.  "  May  I 
hope  you  will  excuse  me  when  I  have  made  you  acquainted 
with  my  motive  ?" 

He  spoke  with  scrupulous  politeness.  His  knoAvledge  of 
Anne  was  of  the  slightest  possible  kind.  Like  other  men,  lie 
had  felt  the  attraction  other  unaffected  grace  and  gentleness 
on  the  few  occasions  when  he  had  been  in  her  company — and 
that  was  all.  If  he  had  belonged  to  the  present  generation  he 
would,  under  the  circumstances,  have  fallen  into  one  of  the  be- 
setting sins  of  England  in  these  days — the  tendency  (to  borrow 
an  illustration  from  the  stage)  to  "strike  an  attitude"  in  the 
presence  of  a  social  emergency.  A  man  of  the  present  period, 
in  Sir  Patrick's  position,  would  have  struck  an  attitude  of 
(what  is  called)  chivalrous  respect ;  and  would  have  addressed 
Anne  in  a  tone  of  ready-made  sympathy,  which  it  was  simply 
impossible  for  a  stranger  really  to  feel.  Sir  Patrick  affected 
nothing  of  the  sort.  One  of  the  besetting  sins  oi' his  time  was 
the  habitual  concealment  of  our  better  selves — upon  the  \\iiole, 
■a  far  less  dangerous  national  error  than  the  habitual  advertise- 

6 


122  MAN   AND   WIFE. 

ment  of  our  better  selves,  which  has  become  the  practice,  pub- 
licly and  privately,  of  society  in  this  age.  Sir  Patrick  as- 
sumed, if  any  thing,  less  sympathy  on  this  occasion  than  he 
really  felt.  Courteous  to  all  women,  he  was  as  courteous  as 
usual  to  Anne — and  no  more. 

"  I  am  quite  at  a  loss,  sir,  to  know  what  brings  you  to  this 
place.  The  servant  here  informs  me  that  you  are  one  of  a  party 
of  gentlemen  Avho  have  just  passed  by  the  inn,  and  who  have 
all  gone  on  except  yourself"  In  those  guarded  terms  Anne 
opened  the  interview  v/ith  the  unwelcome  visitor,  on  her  side. 

Sir  Patrick  admitted  the  fact,  without  betraying  the  slight- 
est embarrassment. 

"  The  servant  is  quite  right,"  he  said.  "  I  am  one  of  the 
party.  And  I  liave  purposely  allowed  them  to  go  on  to  the 
keeper's  cottage  without  me.  Having  admitted  this,  may  I 
count  on  receiving  your  permission  to  explain  the  motive  of 
my  visit  ?" 

Necessarily  suspicious  of  him,  as  coming  from  Wind5^gates, 
Anne  answered  in  few  and  formal  words,  as  coldly  as  before. 

"  Explain  it,  Sir  Patrick,  if  you  please,  as  briefly  as  jDOSsible." 

Sir  Patrick  bowed.  He  was  not  in  the  least  oifeuded  ;  he 
was  even  (if  the  confession  may  be  made  without  degrading  him 
in  the  public  estimation)  privately  amused.  Conscious  of  hav- 
ing honestly  presented  himself  at  the  inn  in  Anne's  interests,  as 
well  as  in  the  interests  of  tlie  ladies  at  Windygates,  it  appealed 
to  his  sense  of  humor  to  find  himself  kept  at  arms-length  by 
the  very  woman  whom  he  had  come  to  benefit.  The  tempta- 
tion was  strong  on  him  to  treat  his  errand  from  his  own  whim- 
sical point  of  view.  He  gravely  took  out  his  watch,  and  noted 
the  time  to  a  second,  before  he  spoke  again. 

"I  have  an  event  to  relate  in  which  you  are  interested,"  he 
said;  "and  I  have  two  messages  to  deliver,  which  I  hope  you 
will  not  object  to  receive.  The  event  I  undertake  to  describe 
in  one  minute.  The  messages  I  promise  to  dispose  of  in  two 
minutes  more.  Total  duration  of  this  intrusion  on  youi-  time — 
three  minutes." 

He  placed  a  chair  for  Anne,  and  waited  until  she  had  per- 
mitted him,  by  a  sign,  to  take  a  second  chair  for  himself 

"  We  will  begin  with  the  event,"  he  resumed.  "  Your  arrival 
at  this  place  is  no  secret  at  Windygates.  You  were  seen  on 
the  foot-road  to  Craig  Fernie  by  one  of  the  female  servants. 
And  the  inference  naturally  drawn  is,  that  j^ou  were  on  your 
way  to  the  inn.  It  may  be  important  for  j^ou  to  know  this; 
and  I  have  taken  the  liberty  of  mentioning  it  accordingly." 
He  consulted  his  watch.     "Event  related.     Time  one  minute." 

He  had  excited  her  curiosity,  to  begin  with.  "  Which  of  the 
women  saw  me  ?"  she  asked,  impulsively. 


MAN    AND   WIFE.  123 

Sir  Patrick  (watch  in  hand)  declined  to  prolong  the  intef^ 
view  by  answering  any  incidental  inquiries  which  might  arise 
in  the  course  of  it. 

"  Pardon  me,"  he  rejoined ;  "  I  am  pledged  to  occupy  three 
minutes  only.  I  have  no  room  for  the  woman.  With  your 
kind  permission,  I  will  get  on  to  the  messages  next." 

Anne  remained  silent.     Sir  Patrick  went  on. 

"  First  message :  '  Lady  Lundie's  compliments  to  her  step- 
daughter's late  governess — with  whose  married  name  she  is  not 
acquainted.  Lady  Lundie  regrets  to  say  that  Sir  Patrick,  as 
head  of  the  family,  has  threatened  to  return  to  Edinburgh  un- 
less she  consents  to  be  guided  by  his  advice  in  the  course  she 
pursues  with  the  late  governess.  Lady  Lundie,  accordingly, 
forgoes  her  intention  of  calling  at  the  Craig  Fei-nie  inn,  to  ex- 
press her  sentiments  and  make  her  inquiries  in  person,  and 
commits  to  Sir  Patrick  the  duty  of  expressing  her  sentiments ; 
reserving  to  herself  the  right  of  making  her  inquiries  at  the 
next  convenient  opportunity.  Through  the  medium  of  her 
brother-in-law,  she  begs  to  inform  the  late  governess  that  all 
intercourse  is  at  an  end  between  them,  and  that  she  declines  to 
act  as  reference  in  case  of  future  emergency.' — Message  text- 
ually  correct.  Expressive  of  Lady  Lundie's  view  of  your  sud- 
den departure  from  the  house.     Time,  two  minutes." 

Anne's  color  rose.     Anne's  pride  was  up  in  arms  on  the  spot. 

"The  impertinence  of  Lady  Lundie's  message  is  no  more 
than  I  should  have  expected  from  her,"  she  said.  "  I  am  only 
surprised  at  Sir  Patrick's  delivering  it." 

"  Sir  Patrick's  motives  will  appear  presently,"  rejoined  the 
incorrigible  old  gentleman.  "  Second  message :  '  Blanche's 
fondest  love.  Is  dying  to  be  acquainted  with  Anne's  husband, 
and  to  be  informed  of  Anne's  married  name.  Feels  indescrib- 
able anxiety  and  apprehension  on  Anne's  account.  Insists  on 
hearing  from  Anne  immediately.  Longs,  as  she  never  longed 
for  any  thing  yet,  to  order  her  pony-chaise  and  drive  full  gallop 
to  the  inn.  Yields,  under  irresistible  pressure,  to  the  exertion 
of  her  guardian's  authority,  and  commits  the  expression  of  her 
feelings  to  Sir  Patrick,  who  is  a  born  tyrant,  and  doesn't  in  the 
least  mind  breaking  other  people's  hearts.'  Sir  Patrick  (speak- 
ing for  himself)  places  his  sister-in-law's  view  and  his  niece's 
view,  side  by  side,  before  the  lady  whom  he  has  now  the  honor 
of  addressing,  and  on  whose  confidence  he  is  especially  careful 
not  to  intrude.  Reminds  the  lady  that  his  influence  at  Windy- 
gates,  however  strenuously  he  may  exert  it,  is  not  likely  to  last 
forever.  Requests  her  to  consider  whether  his  sister-in-law's 
view  and  his  niece's  view,  in  collision,  may  not  lead  to  very 
undesirable  domestic  results  ;  and  leaves  her  to  take  the  course 
which  seems  best  to  herself  under  those  circumstances. — Second 


124  MAN    AND    WIFE. 

message  delivered  textual! y.  Time,  three  minutes.  A  storm 
coming  on.  A  quarter  of  an  hour's  ride  from  here  to  the  shoot- 
ing-cottage.    Madam,  I  wish  you  good-evening." 

He  bowed  lower  than  ever — and,  without  a  word  more, 
quietly  left  the  room. 

Anne's  first  impulse  was  (excusably  enough,  poor  soul)  an 
impulse  of  resentment. 

"Thank  you,  Sir  Patrick  !"  she  said,  with  a  bitter  look  at  the 
closing  door.  "  The  sympathy  of  society  with  a  friendless 
woman  could  hardly  have  been  expressed  in  a  more  amusing 
way  I" 

The  little  irritation  of  the  moment  passed  off  with  the 
moment.  Anne's  own  intelligence  and  good  sense  showed  her 
the  position  in  its  truer  light. 

She  recognized  in  Sir  Patrick's  abrupt  departure  Sir  Patrick's 
considerate  resolution  to  spare  her  from  entering  into  any  de- 
tails on  the  subject  of  her  position  at  the  inn.  He  had  given 
her  a  friendly  warning  ;  and  he  had  delicately  left  her  to  de- 
cide for  herself  as  to  the  assistance  which  she  might  render  him 
in  maintaining  tranquillity  at  Windygates.  She  went  at  once 
to  a  side-table  in  the  room,  on  which  Avriting  materials  were 
placed,  and  sat  down  to  write  to  Blanche. 

"  I  can  do  nothing  with  Lady  Lundie,"  she  thought.  "  But 
I  have  more  influence  than  any  body  else  over  Blanche ;  and 
I  can  prevent  the  collision  between  them  which  Sir  Patrick 
dreads." 

She  began  the  letter.  "  My  deai-est  Blanche,  I  have  seen 
Sir  Patrick,  and  he  has  given  me  your  message.  I  will  set 
your  mind  at  ease  about  me  as  soon  as  I  can.  But,  before  I 
say  any  thing  else,  let  me  entreat  you,  as  the  greatest  favor 
you  can  do  to  your  sister  and  your  friend,  not  to  enter  into 
any  disputes  about  me  with  Lady  Lundie,  and  not  to  commit 
the  imprudence — the  useless  imprudence,  my  love — of  coming 
here."  She  stopped — the  paper  swam  before  her  eyes.  "  My 
own  darling  !"  she  thought,  "  who  could  have  foreseen  that  I 
should  ever  shrink  from  the  thought  of  seeing  youf''  She 
sighed,  and  dipped  the  pen  in  the  ink,  and  went  on  with  the 
letter. 

The  sky  darkened  rapidly  as  the  evening  fell.  The  Avind 
swept  in  fainter  and  fainter  gusts  across  the  dreary  moor. 
Far  and  wide  over  the  face  of  Nature  the  stillness  was  fast 
falliuo;  which  tells  of  a  coming  storm. 


MAN    AND    WIFK.  125 


CHAPTER  THE  TWELFTH. 


Meanwhile  Arnold  remained  shut  up  in  the  head-waiter's 
pantry — chafing  secretly  at  the  position  forced  upon  him. 

He  was,  for  the  first  time  in  his  life,  in  hiding  from  another 
person,  and  that  person  a  man.  Twice — stung  to  it  by  the 
inevitable  loss  of  self-respect  which  his  situation  occasioned — 
he  had  gone  to  the  dooi-,  determined  to  face  Sir  Patrick  bold- 
ly :  and  twice  he  had  abandoned  the  idea,  in  mercy  to  Anne. 
It  would  have  been  impossible  for  him  to  set  himself  right 
with  Blanche's  guardian  without  betraying  the  unhappy  wom- 
an whose  secret  he  was  bound  in  honor  to  keep.  "  I  wish  to 
Heaven  I  had  never  come  here !"  was  the  useless  aspiration 
that  escaped  him,  as  he  doggedly  seated  himself  on  the  dresser 
to  wait  till  Sir  Patrick's  departure  set  him  free. 

After  an  interval — not  by  any  means  the  long  interval  which 
he  had  anticipated — his  solitude  was  enlivened  by  the  appear- 
ance of  Father  Bishopriggs. 

"Well,"  cried  Arnold,  jumping  ofi*  the  dresser,  "  is  the  coast 
clear?" 

There  were  occasions  when  Mr.  Bishopriggs  became,  on  a 
sudden,  unexpectedly  hard  of  hearing.     This  was  one  of  them. 

"  Hoo  do  ye  find  the  paintry  ?"  he  asked,  without  paying  the 
slightest  attention  to  Arnold's  question.  "  Snug  and  private  ? 
A  Patmos  in  the  weelderness,  as  ye  may  say  !" 

His  one  available  eye,  which  had  begun  by  looking  at  Ar- 
nold's face,  dropped  slowly  downward,  and  fixed  itself,  in  mute 
but  eloquent  expectation,  on  Arnold's  waistcoat  pocket. 

"I  understand  !"  said  Arnold.  "  I  promised  to  pay  you  for 
the  Patmos — eh  ?     There  you  are  !" 

Mr.  Bishopriggs  pocketed  the  money  with  a  dreary  smile 
and  a  sympathetic  shake  of  the  head.  Other  waiters  would 
have  returned  thanks.  The  sage  of  Craig  Fernie  returned  a 
few  brief  remarks  instead.  Admirable  in  many  things,  Father 
Bishopriggs  was  especially  great  at  drawing  a  moral.  He  drew 
a  moral  on  this  occasion  from  his  own  gratuity. 

"  There  I  am — as  ye  say.  Mercy  presairve  us  !  ye  need  the 
siller  at  every  turn,  when  there's  a  woman  at  yer  heels.  It's 
an  awfu'  reflection — ye  canna  hae  any  thing  to  do  wi'  the  sex 
they  ca'  the  opposite  sex  without  its  being  an  expense  to  ye. 
There's  this  young  leddy  o'  yours,  I  doot  she'll  ha'  been  an 


126  MAN    AND   WIPE. 

expense  to  ye  from  the  first.  When  you  were  coortin'  her,  ye 
did  it,  I'll  go  bail,  wi'  the  open  hand.  Presents  and  keepsakes, 
flowers  and  jewelry,  and  little  dogues.  Sair  expenses  all  of 
them !" 

"  Hang  your  reflections  !     Has  Sir  Patrick  left  the  inn  ?" 

The  reflections  of  Mr.  Bishopriggs  declined  to  be  disposed 
of  in  any  thing  approaching  to  a  summary  way.  On  they 
flowed  from  their  parent  source,  as  slowly  and  as  smoothly  as 
ever! 

"  Noo  ye're  married  to  her,  there's  her  bonnets  and  goons 
and  under-clothin' — her  ribbons,  laces,  furbelows,  and  fallals. 
A  sair  expense  again  !" 

"What  is  the  expense  of  cutting  your  reflections  short,  Mr. 
Bishopriggs  ?" 

"  Thirdly,  and  lastly,  if  ye  canna  agree  wi'  her  as  time  gaes 
on — if  there's  incompaitibeelity  of  temper  betwixt  ye — in  short, 
if  ye  want  a  wee  bit  separation,  hech,  sirs  !  ye  pet  yer  hand  in 
yer  poaket,  and  come  to  an  aimicable  understandin'  wi'  her  in 
that  way.  Or,  maybe  she  takes  ye  into  Court,  and  pets  her 
hand  in  yottr  poaket,  and  comes  to  a  hoastile  understandin'  wi' 
ye  there.  Show  me  a  woman — and  I'll  show  ye  a  man  not  far 
ofi"  wha'  has  mair  expenses  on  his  back  than  he  ever  bargained 
for."  Arnold's  patience  would  last  no  longer — he  turned  to 
the  door.  Mr.  Bishopriggs,  with  equal  alacrity  on  his  side, 
turned  to  the  matter  in  hand.  "  T  es,  sir !  The  room  is  e'en 
clear  o'  Sir  Paitrick,  and  the  leddy's  alane,  and  waitin'  for  ye." 

In  a  moment  more  Arnold  was  back  in  the  sitting-room. 

"Well?"  he  asked, anxiously;  "what  is  it?  Bad  news  from 
Lady  Lundie's  ?" 

Anne  closed  and  directed  the  letter  to  Blanche,  which  she 
had  just  completed.  "  No,"  she  replied.  "  Nothing  to  interest 
youP 

"  What  did  Sir  Patrick  want  ?" 

"  Only  to  warn  me.  They  have  found  out  at  Windygates 
that  I  am  here." 

"  That's  awkward,  isn't  it  ?" 

"  Not  in  the  least.  I  can  manage  perfectly ;  I  have  nothing 
to  fear.     Don't  think  of  yne — think  of  yourself." 

"  I  am  not  suspected,  am  I  ?" 

"  Thank  Heaven — no  !  But  there  is  no  knowing  what  may 
happen  if  you  stay  here.  Ring  the  bell  at  once,  and  ask  the 
waiter  about  the  trains." 

Struck  by  the  unusual  obscurity  of  the  sky  at  that  hour 
of  the  evening,  Arnold  went  to  the  window.  The  rain  had 
come — and  was  falling  heavily.  The  view  on  the  moor  was 
fast  disappearing  in  mist  and  darkness. 

"  Pleasant  weather  to  travel  in  !"  he  said. 


MAN    AND    WIPE.  127 

"  The  railway !"  Anne  exclaimed,  impatiently.  "  It's  getting 
late.     See  about  the  railway !" 

Arnold  walked  to  the  fire-place  to  ring  the  bell.  The  rail- 
way time-table  hanging  over  it  met  his  eye. 

"  Here's  the  information  I  want,"  he  said  to  Anne ;  "  if  I  only 
knew  how  to  get  at  it.  'Down' — 'Up' — 'a.m.' — 'p.m.'  What 
a  carsed  confusion !     I  believe  they  do  it  on  purpose." 

Anne  joined  him  at  the  fire-place. 

'  L  understand  it — I'll  help  you.  Did  you  say  it  was  the  up 
train  you  wanted  ?" 

"  Yes." 

"What  is  the  name  of  the  station  you  stop  at?" 

Arnold  told  her.  She  followed  the  intricate  net-work  of 
lines  and  ^gures  with  her  finger — suddenly  stopped — looked 
again  to  make  sure — and  turned  from  the  time-table  with  a 
face  of  blank  despair.  The  last  train  for  the  day  had  gone  an 
hour  since. 

In  the  silence  which  followed  that  discovery,  a  first  flash  of 
lightning  passed  across  the  window,  and  the  low  roll  of  thun- 
der sounded  the  outbreak  of  the  storm. 

"What's  to  be  done  now?"  asked  Arnold. 

In  the  face  of  the  storm,  Anne  answered  without  hesitation, 
"  You  must  take  a  carriage,  and  drive." 

"Drive?  They  told  me  it  was  three-and-twenty  miles, by 
railway,  from  the  station  to  my  place — let  alone  the  distance 
from  this  inn  to  the  station." 

"What  does  the  distance  matter?  Mr.  Brinkworth,  you 
can't  possibly  stay  here  !" 

A  second  flash  of  lightning  crossed  the  window ;  the  roll  of 
the  thunder  came  nearer.  Even  Arnold's  good  temper  began 
to  be  a  little  ruffled  by  Anne's  determination  to  get  rid  of  him. 
He  sat  down  with  the  air  of  a  man  who  had  made  up  his  mind 
not  to  leave  the  house. 

"  Do  you  hear  that  ?"  he  asked,  as  the  sound  of  the  thunder 
died  away  grandly,  and  the  hard  pattering  of  the  rain  on  the 
window  became  audible  once  more.  "  If  I  ordered  horses,  do 
you  think  they  would  let  me  have  them,  in  such  weather  as 
this?  And,  if  they  did,  do  you  suppose  the  horses  could  face 
it  on  the  moor  ?  No,  no,  Miss  Silvester — I  am  sorry  to  be  in 
the  way ;  but  the  train  has  gone,  and  the  night  and  the  storm 
have  come.     I  have  no  choice  but  to  stay  here  !" 

Anne  still  maintained  her  own  view,  but  less  resolutely  than 
before.  "  After  what  you  have  told  the  landlady,"  she  said, 
"  think  of  the  embarrassment,  the  cruel  embarrassment  of  our 
position,  if  you  stop  at  the  inn  till  to-morrow  morning  !" 

"  Is  that  all  ?"  returned  Arnold. 

Anne  looked  up  at  him,  quickly  and  angrily.     No  !  he  was 


128  MAN    AND    WIFE. 

quite  unconscious  of  having  said  any  thing  that  could  offend 
her.  His  rough  masculine  sense  broke  its  way  unconsciously 
through  all  the  little  feminine  subtleties  and  delicacies  of  his 
companion,  and  looked  the  position  practically  in  the  face  for 
what  it  was  worth,  and  no  more.  "  Where's  the  embarrass- 
ment ?"  he  asked,  pointing  to  the  bedroom  door.  "  There's 
your  room,  all  ready  for  you.  And  here's  the  sofa,  in  this 
room,  all  ready  for  me.  If  you  had  seen  the  places  I  have 
slept  in  at  sea —  !" 

She  interrupted  him  without  ceremony.  The  places  he  had 
slept  in  at  sea,  were  of  no  earthly  importance.  The  one  ques- 
tion to  consider,  was  the  place  he  was  to  sleep  in  that  night. 

"  If  you  must  stay,"  she  rejoined,  "can't  you  get  a  room  in 
some  other  part  of  the  house?" 

But  one  last  mistake  in  dealing  with  her,  in  her  present  nerv- 
ous condition,  was  left  to  make  —  and  the  innocent  Arnold 
made  it.  "  In  some  other  part  of  the  house  ?"  he  repeated, 
jestingly.  "The  landlady  would  be  scandalized.  Mr.  Bishop- 
riggs  would  never  allow  it !" 

She  rose,  and  stamped  her  foot  impatiently  on  the  floor. 
"  Don't  joke !"  she  exclaimed.  "  This  is  no  laughing  matter." 
She  paced  the  room  excitedly.  "  I  don't  like  it !  I  don't  like 
it !" 

Arnold  looked  after  her,  with  a  stare  of  boyish  wonder. 

"  What  puts  you  out  so  ?"  he  asked.     "  Is  it  the  storm  ?" 

She  threw  herself  on  the  sofa  again.  "  Yes,"  she  said,  short- 
ly; "it's  the  storm." 

Arnold's  inexhaustible  good-nature  was  at  once  roused  to 
activity  again. 

"  Shall  we  have  the  candles,"  he  suggested,  "  and  shut  the 
weather  out  ?"  She  turned  irritably  on  the  sofa,  without  re- 
plying. "I'll  promise  to  go  away  the  first  thing  in  the  morn- 
ing !"  he  went  on.  "  Do  try  and  take  it  easy — and  don't  be 
angry  with  me.  Come  !  come  !  you  wouldn't  turn  a  dog  out. 
Miss  Silvester,  on  such  a  night  as  this  !" 

He  was  irresistible.  The  most  sensitive  woman  breathing 
could  not  have  accused  him  of  failing  toward  her  in  any  single 
essential  of  consideration  and  respect.  He  wanted  tact,  poor 
fellow — but  who  could  expect  him  to  have  learned  that  always 
superficial  (and  sometimes  dangerous)  accomplishment,  in  the 
life  he  had  led  at  sea?  At  the  sight  of  his  honest,  pleading 
face,  Anne  recovered  possession  of  her  gentler  and  sweeter  self. 
She  made  her  excuses  for  her  irritability  with  a  grace  that 
enchanted  him.  "  We'll  have  a  pleasant  evening  of  it  yet !" 
cried  Arnold,  in  his  hearty  way — and  rang  the  bell. 

The  bell  was  hung  outside  the  door  of  that  Patmos  in  the 
wilderness  —  otherwise  known  as  the   head-waiter's  pantry. 


MAN    AND    WIFE.  129 

Mr.  Bishopriggs  (employing  his  brief  leisure  in  the  seclusion 
of  his  own  apartment)  had  just  mixed  a  glass  of  the  hot  and 
comforting  liquor  called  "  toddy  "  in  the  language  of  North 
Britain,  and  was  just  lifting  it  to  his  lips,  when  the  summons 
from  Arnold  invited  him  to  leave  his  grog. 

"  Hand  yer  screechin'  tongue  !"  cried  Mr.  Bishopriggs,  ad- 
dressing the  bell  through  the  door.  "  Ye're  waur  than  a  wom- 
an when  ye  aiuce  begin  !" 

The  bell — like  the  woman — went  on  again.  Mr.  Bishopriggs, 
equally  pertinacious,  went  on  with,  his  toddy. 

"Ay!  ay  !  ye  may  e'en  ring  yer  heart  out — but  ye  won't 
part  a  Scotchman  from  his  glass.  It's  maybe  the  end  of  their 
dinner  they'll  be  wantiu'.  Sir  Paitrick  cam'  in  at  the  fair  be- 
ginning of  it,  and  spoilt  the  coUops,  like  the  dour  deevil  he  is  !" 
The  bell  rang  for  the  third  time.  "  Ay  !  ay  !  ring  awa' !  I 
doot  yon  young  gentleman's  little  better  than  a  belly-god — 
there's  a  scandalous  haste  to  comfort  the  carnal  part  o'  him  in 
a'  this  ringin' !  He  knows  naething  o'  wine,"  added  Mr.  Bish- 
opriggs, on  whose  mind  Arnold's  discovery  of  the  watered 
sherry  still  dwelt  unpleasantly. 

The  lightning  quickened,  and  lit  the  sitting-room  horribly 
with  its  lurid  glare ;  the  thunder  rolled  nearer  and  nearer  over 
the  black  gulf  of  the  moor.  Arnold  had  just  raised  his  hand 
to  ring  for  the  fourth  time,  when  the  inevitable  knock  was 
heard  at  the  door.  It  was  useless  to  say  "  come  in."  The  im- 
mutable laws  of  Bishopriggs  had  decided  that  a  second  knock 
was  necessary.  Storm  or  no  storm,  the  second  knock  came — 
and  then,  and  not  till  then,  the  sage  appeared,  with  the  dish  of 
untasted  "collops"  in  his  hand. 

"  Candles  !"  said  Arnold. 

Mr.  Bishopriggs  set  the  "collops"  (in  the  language  of  En- 
gland, minced  meat)  upon  the  table,  lit  the  candles  on  the  man- 
tel-piece, faced  about,  with  the  fire  of  recent  toddy  flaming  in 
his  nose,  and  waited  for  further  orders,  before  he  went  back 
to  his  second  glass.  Anne  declined  to  return  to  the  dinner. 
Arnold  ordered  Mr.  Bishopriggs  to  close  the  shutters,  and  sat 
down  to  dine  by  himself 

"It  looks  greasy,  and  smells  gieasy,"  he  said  to  Anne,  turn- 
ing over  tlie  collops  with  a  spoon.  "I  won't  be  ten  minutes 
dining.     Will  you  have  some  tea  ?" 

Anne  declined  again. 

Arnold  tried  her  once  more.  "What  shall  we  do  to  get 
through  the  evening  ?" 

"Do  what  you  like,"  she  answered,  resignedly. 

Arnold's  mind  was  suddenly  illuminated  by  an  idea. 

"  I  have  got  it !"  he  exclaimed.  "  We'll  kill  the  time  as  our 
8 


130  MAN    AND    WIFE. 

cabin-passengers  used  to  kill  it  at  sea."  He  looked  over  his 
shoulder  at  Mr.  Bishopriggs.  "  Waiter !  bring  a  pack  of 
cards." 

"  What's  that  ye're  wan  tin'  ?"  asked  Mr.  Bishopriggs,  doubt- 
ing the  evidence  of  his  own  senses. 

"  A  pack  of  cards,"  repeated  Arnold. 

"Cairds?"  echoed  .Mr.  Bishopriggs.  "A  pack  o'  cairds? 
The  deevil's  allegories  in  the  deevil's  own  colors — red  and 
black !  I  wanna  execute  yer  order.  For  yer  ain  saul's  sake, 
I  wunna  do  it.  Ha'  ye  liv«d  to  your  time  o'  life,  and  are  ye 
no'  awakened  yet  to  the  awfu'  seenfulness  o'  gamblin'  wi'  the 
cairds  ?" 

"Just  as  you  please,"  returned  Arnold.  "You  will  find  me 
awakened — when  I  go  away — to  the  awful  folly  of  feeing  a 
waiter," 

"  Does  that  mean  that  ye're  bent  on  the  cairds  ?"  asked  Mr. 
Bishopriggs,  suddenly  betraying  signs  of  worldly  anxiety  in 
his  look  and  manner, 

"  Yes — that  means  I  am  bent  on  the  cards." 

"I  tak'  up  my  testimony  against  'em — but  I'm  no'  telling 
ye  that  I  canna  lay  ray  hand  on  'em  if  I  like.  What  do  they 
say  in  my  country  ?  '  Him  that  will  to  Coupar,  maun  to  Cou- 
par.'  And  what  do  they  say  in  your  country  ?  '  Needs  must 
when  the  deevil  drives,'"  With  that  excellent  reason  for 
turning  his  back  on  his  own  principles,  Mr,  Bishopriggs  shuf- 
fled out  of  the  room  to  fetch  the  cards. 

The  dresser-drawer  in  the  pantry  contained  a  choice  selec- 
tion of  miscellaneous  objects — a  pack  of  cards  being  among 
them.  In  searching  for  the  cards,  the  wary  hand  of  the  head- 
waiter  came  in  contact  with  a  morsel  of  crumpled-up  paper. 
He  drew  it  out,  and  recognized  the  letter  which  he  had  picked 
up  in  the  sitting-room  some  hours  since. 

"Ay!  ay!  I'll  do  weel,  I  trow,  to  look  at  this  while  my 
mind's  runnin'  on  it,"  said  Mr.  Bishopriggs,  "  The  cairds  may 
e'en  find  their  way  to  the  parlor  by  other  hands  than  mine." 

He  forthwith  sent  the  cards  to  Arnold  by  his  second  in 
command,  closed  the  pantry  door,  and  carefully  smoothed  out 
the  crumpled  sheet  of  paper  on  which  the  two  letters  were 
written.  This  done,  he  trimmed  his  candle,  and  began  with 
the  letter  in  ink,  which  occupied  the  first  three  pages  of  the 
sheet  of  note-paper. 

It  ran  thus : 

"WiNDTGATES  HoTJSE,  August  12,  1868. 

"  Geoffrey  Delamayn, — I  have  waited  in  the  hope  that 
you  would  ride  over  from  your  brother's  place  and  see  me — 
and  I  have  waited  in  vain.  Your  conduct  to  me  is  cruelty  it- 
gelf;  I  will  bear  it  no  longer.     Consider!  in  your  own  inter- 


MAN    AND    WIFE.  131 

ests,  consider — before  you  drive  the  miserable  woman  who  has 
trusted  you  to  despair.  You  have  promised  me  marriage  by 
all  that  is  sacred.  I  claim  your  promise,  I  insist  on  nothing 
less  than  to  be  what  you  vowed  I  should  be — what  I  have 
waited  all  this  weary  time  to  be — what  I  am,  in  the  sight  of 
Heaven,  your  wedded  wife.  Lady  Lundie  gives  a  lawn-party 
here  on  the  14th.  I  know  you  have  been  asked.  I  expect 
you  to  accept  her  invitation.  If  I  don't  see  you,  I  won't  an- 
swer for  what  may  happen.  My  mind  is  made  up  to  endure 
this  suspense  no  longer.  Oh,  Geoffrey,  remember  the  past ! 
Be  faithful — be  just — to  your  loving  wife, 

"Anne  Silvester." 

Mr.  Bishopriggs  paused.  His  commentary  on  the  corre- 
spondence, so  far,  was  simple  enough.  "  Hot  words  (in  ink) 
from  the  leddy  to  the  gentleman !"  He  ran  his  eye  over  the 
second  letter,  on  the  fourth  page  of  the  paper,  and  added,  cyn- 
ically, "  A  trifle  caulder  (in  pencil)  from  the  gentleman  to  the 
leddy  !  The  way  o'  the  warld,  sirs !  From  the  time  o'  Adam 
downward,  the  way  o'  the  warld  !" 

The  second  letter  ran  thus : 

"  Dear  Anne, — Just  called  to  London  to  my  father.  They 
have  telegraphed  him  in  a  bad  way.  Stop  where  you  are,  and 
I  will  write  you.  Trust  the  bearer.  Upon  my  soul,  I'll  keep 
my  promise.     Your  loving  husband  that  is  to  be, 

"  Geoffrey  Delamatn. 

"WiNDTGATES  HousE,  Aug.  14,  4  P.M. 

"In  a  mortal  hurry.     Train  starts  at  4,30." 

There  it  ended  ! 

"Who  are  the  parties  in  the  parlor?  Is  ane  o'  them  'Sil- 
vester ?'  and  t'other  '  Delamayn  ?'  "  pondered  Mr.  Bishopriggs, 
slowly  folding  the  letter  up  again  in  its  original  form,  "  Hech, 
sirs  !  what,  being  intairpreted,  may  a'  this  mean  ?" 

He  mixed  himself  a  second  glass  of  toddy,  as  an  aid  to  re- 
flection, and  sat  sipping  the  liquor,  and  twisting  and  turning 
the  letter  in  his  gouty  fingers.  It  was  not  easy  to  see  his  way 
to  the  true  connection  between  the  lady  and  gentleman  in  the 
parlor  and  the  two  letters  now  in  his  own  possession.  They 
might  be  themselves  the  writers  of  the  letters,  or  they  might 
be  only  friends  of  the  writers.     Who  was  to  decide  ? 

In  the  first  case,  the  lady's  object  would  appear  to  have 
been  as  good  as  gained ;  for  the  two  had  certainly  asserted 
themselves  to  be  man  and  wife,  in  his  own  presence,  and  in 
the  presence  of  the  landlady.  In  the  second  case,  the  corre- 
spondence so  carelessly  thrown  aside  might,  for  all  a  stranger 
knew  to  the  contrary,  prove  to  be  of  some  importance  in  the 


132  MAN   AND   WIFE. 


^1 


future.  Acting  on  this  latter  view,  Mr,  Bishopriggs — whose 
past  experience  as  "  a  bit  clerk  body,"  in  Sir  Patrick's  cham- 
bers, had  made  a  man  of  business  of  him — produced  his  pen 
and  ink,  and  indorsed  the  letter  witli  a  brief  dated  statement 
of  the  circumstances  under  which  he  had  found  it.  "  I'll  do 
weel  to  keep  the  Doecument,"  he  thought  to  himself.  "  Wha 
knows  but  there'll  be  a  reward  offered  for  it  ane  o'  these  days? 
Eh  !  eh  !  there  may  be  the  warth  o'  a  fi'  pun'  note  in  this  to  a 
puir  lad  like  me  !" 

With  that  comforting  reflection,  he  drew  out  a  battered  tin 
cash-box  from  the  inner  recesses  of  the  drawer,  and  locked  up 
the  stolen  correspondence  to  bide  its  time. 

The  storm  rose  higher  and  higher  as  the  evening  advanced. 

In  the  sitting-room,  the  state  of  affairs,  perpetually  chang- 
ing, now  presented  itself  under  another  new  aspect. 

Arnold  had  finished  his  dinner,  and  had  sent  it  away.  He 
had  next  drawn  a  side-table  up  to  the  sofa  on  which  Anne  lay 
— had  shuffled  the  pack  of  cards — and  was  now  using  all  his 
powers  of  persuasion  to  induce  her  to  try  one  game  at  Ecart'e. 
with  him,  by  way  of  diverting  her  attention  from  the  tumult 
of  the  storm.  In  sheer  weariness,  she  gave  up  contesting  the 
matter ;  and,  raising  herself  languidly  on  the  sofa,  said  she 
would  try  to  play,  "  Nothing  can  make  matters  worse  than 
they  are,"  she  thought,  despairingly,  as  Arnold  dealt  the  cards 
for  her.  "Nothing  can  justify  my  inflicting  my  own  wretch- 
edness on  this  kind-hearted  boy  !" 

Two  worse  players  never  probably  sat  down  to  a  game. 
Anne's  attention  perpetually  wandered ;  and  Anne's  compan- 
ion was,  in  all  human  probability,  the  most  incapable  card- 
player  in  Europe, 

Anne  turned  up  the  trump — the  nine  of  Diamonds.  Arnold 
looked  at  his  hand — and  "  proposed,"  Anne  declined  to  change 
the  cards.  Arnold  announced,  with  undiminished  good-humor, 
that  he  saw  his  way  clearly,  now,  to  losing  the  game,  and  then 
played  his  first  card — the  Queen  of  Trumps  ! 

Anne  took  it  with  the  King,  and  forgot  to  declare  the  King. 
She  played  the  ten  of  Trumps, 

Arnold  unexpectedly  discovered  the  eight  of  Trumps  in  his 
band,  "  What  a  pity  !"  he  said,  as  he  played  it.  "  Halloo ! 
you  haven't  marked  the  King  !  I'll  do  it  for  you.  That's  two 
— no,  three — to  you.  I  said  I  should  lose  the  game.  Couldn't 
be  expected  to  do  any  thing  (could  I  ?)  with  such  a  hand  as 
mine.  I've  lost  every  thing,  now  I've  lost  my  trumps.  You 
to  play," 

Anne  looked  at  her  hand.  At  the  same  moment  the  light- 
nine;  flashed  into  the  room  through  the  ill-closed  shutters ;  the 


MAN    AND    WIPE.  133 

roar  of  the  thunder  burst  over  the  liouse,  and  shook  it  to  its 
foundation.  The  screaming  of  some  liysterical  female  tourist, 
and  the  barking  of  a  dog,  rose  shrill  from  the  upper  floor  of 
the  inn.  Anne's  nerves  could  support  it  no  longer.  She  flung 
her  cards  on  the  table,  and  sprang  to  her  feet. 

"  I  can  play  no  more,"  she  said.  "  Forgive  me — I  am  quite 
unequal  to  it.     My  head  burns  !  my  heart  stifles  me !" 

She  began  to  pace  the  room  again.  Aggravated  by  the  ef- 
fect of  the  storm  on  her  nerves,  her  first  vague  distrust  of  the 
false  position  into  which  she  and  Arnold  had  allowed  them- 
selves to  drift  had  strengthened,  by  this  time,  into  a  downright 
horror  of  their  situation  which  was  not  to  be  endured.  Noth- 
ing could  justify  such  a  risk  as  the  risk  they  were  now  run- 
ning !  They  had  dined  together  like  married  people  —  and 
there  they  were,  at  that  moment,  shut  in  together,  and  passing 
the  evening  like  man  and  wife  ! 

"  Oh,  Mr.  Brinkworth  !"  she  pleaded.  "  Think— for  Blanche's 
sake,  think — is  there  no  way  out  of  this  ?" 

Arnold  was  quietly  collecting  the  scattered  cards. 

"  Blanche,  again  ?"  he  said,  with  the  most  exasperating  com- 
posure.    "  I  wonder  how  she  feels  in  this  storm  ?" 

In  Anne's  excited  state,  the  reply  almost  maddened  her. 
She  turned  from  Arnold,  and  hurried  to  the  door. 

"  I  don't  care  !"  she  cried,  wildly.  "  I  won't  let  this  decep- 
tion go  on.  I'll  do  what  I  ought  to  have  done  before.  Come 
what  may  of  it,  I'll  tell  the  landlady  the  truth  !" 

She  had  opened  the  door,  and  was  on  the  point  of  stepping 
into  the  passage  —  when  she  stopped,  and  started  violently. 
Was  it  possible,  in  that  dreadful  weather,  that  she  had  actual- 
ly heard  the  sound  of  carriage  wheels  on  the  strip  of  paved 
road  outside  the  inn  ? 

Yes  !  others  had  heard  the  sound  too.  The  hobbling  figure 
of  Mr.  Bishopriggs  passed  her  in  the  passage,  making  for  the 
house  door.  The  hard  voice  of  the  landlady  rang  through  the 
inn,  ejaculating  astonishment  in  broad  Scotch.  Anne  closed 
the  sitting-room  door  again,  and  turned  to  Arnold — who  had 
risen,  in  surprise,  to  his  feet. 

"Travelers  !"  she  exclaimed.     "At  this  time  !" 

"And  in  this  weather  !"  added  Arnold. 

"  Can  it  be  Geofi"rey  ?"  she  asked — going  back  to  the  old 
vain  delusion  that  he  might  yet  feel  for  her,  and  return. 

Arnold  shook  his  head.  "  Not  Geofii'ey.  Whoever  else  it 
may  be — not  Geoff"rey  !" 

Mrs.  Inchbare  suddenly  entered  the  room — with  her  cap-rib- 
bons flying,  her  eyes  staring,  and  her  bones  looking  harder 
than  ever. 

"Eh,  mistress  !"  she  said  to  Anne.     "  Wha  do  ye  think  has 


134  MAN    AND    WIFE. 

driven  here  to  see  ye,  from  Windygates  Hoose,  and  been  ower- 
taken  in  the  storm  ?" 

Anne  was  speechless.    Arnold  put  the  question  :  "  Who  is  it?" 

"  Wha  is't  ?"  repeated  Mrs.  Inchbare.  "  It's  joost  the  bon- 
ny young  leddy — Miss  Blanche  hersel'." 

An  irrepressible  cry  of  horror  burst  from  Anne.  The  land- 
lady set  it  down  to  the  lightning,  wliich  flashed  into  the  room 
again  at  the  same  moment. 

"  Eh,  mistress  !  ye'll  find  Miss  Blanche- a  bit  baulder  than  to 
skirl  at  a  flash  o'  lightning,  that  gait !  Here  she  is,  the  bonny 
birdie  !"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Inchbare,  deferentially  backing  out 
into  the  passage  again. 

Blanche's  voice  reached  them,  calling  for  Anne. 

Anne  caught  Arnold  by  the  hand  and  wrung  it  hard.  *'  Go  !" 
she  whispered.  The  next  instant  she  was  at  the  mantel-piece, 
and  had  blown  out  both  the  candles. 

Another  flash  of  lightning  came  through  the  darkness,  and 
showed  Blanche's  figure  standing  at  the  door. 


CHAPTER  THE  THIRTEENTH. 

BLANCHE. 

Mrs.  Inchbare  was  the  first  person  who  acted  in  the  emer- 
gency. She  called  for  lights  ;  and  sternly  rebuked  the  house- 
maid, who  brought  them,  for  not  having  closed  the  house  door. 
"  Ye  feckless  ne'er-do-weel !"  cried  the  landlady  ;  "  the  wind's 
blawn  the  candles  oot." 

The  woman  declared  (with  perfect  truth)  that  the  door  had 
been  closed.  An  awkward  dispute  might  have  ensued  if  Blanche 
had  not  diverted  Mrs.  Inchbare's  attention  to  herself.  The  ap- 
pearance of  the  lights  disclosed  her,  wet  through,  with  her 
arms  round  Anne's  neck.  Mrs.  Inchbare  digressed  at  once  to 
the  pressing  question  of  changing  the  young  lady's  clothes, 
and  gave  Anne  the  opportunity  of  looking  round  her  unob- 
served. Arnold  had  made  his  escape  before  the  candles  had 
been  brought  in. 

In  the  mean  time  Blanche's  attention  was  absorbed  in  her 
own  dripping  skirts. 

"  Good  gracious  !  I'm  absolutely  distilling  rain  from  every 
part  of  me.  And  I'm  making  you,  Anne,  as  wet  as  I  am  ! 
Lend  me  some  dry  things.  You  can't  ?  Mrs.  Inchbare,  what 
does  your  experience  suggest  ?  Which  had  I  better  do  ?  Go 
to  bed  while  my  clothes  are  being  dried  ?  or  borrow  from  your 
wardrobe — though  you  are  a  head  and  shoulders  taller  than  I 
am?" 


MAN    AND    WIFE.  135 

Mrs.  Inchbare  instantly  bustled  out  to  fetch  the  choicest 
garments  that  her  wardrobe  could  produce.  The  moment  the 
door  had  closed  on  her  Blanche  looked  round  the  room  in  her 
turn.  The  rights  of  affection  having  been  already  asserted, 
the  claims  of  curiosity  naturally  pressed  for  satisfaction  next. 

"  Somebody  passed  me  in  the  dark,"  she  whispered.  "  Was 
it  your  husband  ?  I'm  dying  to  be  introduced  to  him.  And, 
oh,  my  dear  !  what  is  your  married  name  ?" 

Anne  answered,  coldly, "  Wait  a  little.  I  can't  speak  about 
it  yet." 

"  Ai-e  you  ill  ?"  asked  Blanche. 

"  I  am  a  little  nervous." 

"  Has  any  thing  unpleasant  happened  between  you  and  my 
uncle  ?     You  have  seen  him,  haven't  you  ?" 

"  Yes." 

"  Did  he  give  you  my  message  ?" 

"  He  gave  me  your  message. — Blanche !  you  promised  him 
to  stay  at  Windygates.  Why,  in  the  name  of  Heaven,  did  you 
come  here  to-night  ?" 

"  If  you  were  half  as  fond  of  me  as  I  am  of  you,"  returned 
Blanche,  "  you  wouldn't  ask  that.  I  tried  hard  to  keep  my 
promise,  but  I  couldn't  do  it.  It  was  all  very  well,  while  my 
uncle  was  laying  down  the  law — with  Lady  Lundie  in  a  rage, 
and  the  dogs  barking,  and  the  doors  banging,  and  all  that. 
The  excitement  kept  me  up.  But  when  my  uncle  had  gone, 
and  the  dreadful  gray,  quiet,  rainy  evening  came,  and  it  had 
all  calmed  down  again,  there  was  no  bearing  it.  The  house — 
without  you — was  like  a  tomb.  If  I  had  had  Arnold  with  me 
I  might  have  done  very  well.  But  I  was  all  by  myself  Think 
of  that !  Not  a  soul  to  speak  to !  There  wasn't  a  horrible 
thing  that  could  possibly  happen  to  you  that  I  didn't  fancy 
was  going  to  happen.  I  went  into  your  empty  room  and  look- 
ed at  your  things.  That  settled  it,  my  darling  !  I  rushed 
down  stairs — carried  away,  positively  carried  away,  by  an  im- 
pulse beyond  human  resistance.  How  could  I  help  it  ?  I  ask 
any  reasonable  person  how  could  I  help  it  ?  I  ran  to  the  stables 
and  found  Jacob.  Impulse — all  impulse,  I  said, '  Get  the  pony- 
chaise — I  must  have  a  drive  ;  I  don't  care  if  it  rains — you  come 
with  me.'  All  in  a  breath,  and  all  impulse  !  Jacob  behaved 
like  an  angel.  He  said,  'All  right,  miss.'  I  am  perfectly  cer- 
tain Jacob  would  die  for  me  if  I  asked  him.  He  is  drinking  hot 
grog  at  this  moment,  to  prevent  him  from  catching  cold,  by 
my  express  orders.  He  had  the  pony-chaise  out  in  two  min- 
utes ;  and  off  we  went.  Lady  Lundie,  my  dear,  prostrate  in  her 
own  room — too  much  sal  volatile.  I  hate  her.  The  rain  got 
worse.  I  didn't  mind  it.  Jacob  didn't  mind  it.  The  pony 
didn't  mind  it.     They  had  both  caught  my  impulse — especial- 


136  MAN    AND    WIFE. 

ly  the  pony.  It  didn't  come  on  to  thunder  till  some  time  after- 
ward ;  and  then  we  were  nearer  Craig  Fernie  than  Windygates 
— to  say  nothing  of  your  being  at  one  place  and  not  at  the 
other.  The  lightning  was  quite  awful  on  the  moor.  If  I  had 
had  one  of  the  horses,  he  would  have  been  frightened.  The 
pony  shook  his  darling  little  head,  and  dashed  through  it.  He 
is  to  have  beer — a  mash  with  beer  in  it — by  my  express  or- 
ders. When  he  has  done  we'll  borrow  a  lantern,  and  go  into 
the  stable,  and  kiss  him.  In  the  moan  time,  my  dear,  here  I 
am  —  wet  through  in  a  thunder-storm,  which  doesn't  in  the 
least  matter — and  determined  to  satisfy  my  own  mind  about 
you,  which  matters  a  great  deal,  and  must  and  shall  be  done 
before  I  rest  to-night !" 

She  turned  Anne,  by  main  force,  as  she  sjioke,  toward  the 
light  of  the  candles. 

Her  tone  changed  the  moment  she  looked  at  Anne's  face. 

"  I  knew  it !"  she  said.  "  You  would  never  have  kept  the 
most  interesting  event  in  your  life  a  secret  from  me — you  w^ould 
never  have  written  me  such  a  cold  formal  letter  as  the  letter 
you  left  in  your  room — if  there  had  not  been  something  wrong. 
I  said  so  at  the  time.  I  know  it  now  !  Why  has  your  hus- 
band forced  you  to  leave  Windygates  at  a  moment's  notice? 
Why  does  he  slip  out  of  the  room  in  the  dark,  as  if  he  was 
afraid  of  being  seen  ?  Anne  !  Anne !  what  has  come  to  you  ? 
Why  do  you  receive  me  in  this  way?" 

At  that  critical  moment  Mrs.  Inchbare  re-appeared,  with  the 
choicest  selection  of  wearing  apparel  which  her  wardrobe  could 
furnish.  Anne  hailed  the  welcome  interruption.  She  took  the 
candles,  and  led  the  way  into  the  bedroom  immediately. 

"  Change  your  wet  clothes  first,"  she  said.  "  We  can  talk 
after  that." 

The  bedroom  door  had  hardly  been  closed  a  minute  before 
there  was  a  tap  at  it.  Signing  to  Mrs.  Inchbare  not  to  inter- 
rupt tlie  services  she  was  rendering  to  Blanche,  Anne  passed 
quickly  into  the  sitting-room,  and  closed  the  door  behind  her. 
To  her  infinite  relief,  she  only  found  herself  face  to  face  with 
the  discreet  Mr.  Bishopriggs. 

"  What  do  you  want  ?"  she  asked. 

The  eye  of  Mr.  Bishopriggs  announced,  by  a  wink,  that  his 
mission  was  of  a  confidential  nature.  The  hand  of  Mr.  Bishop- 
riggs wavered ;  the  breath  of  Mr.  Bishopriggs  exhaled  a  spir- 
ituous fume.  He  slowly  produced  a  slip  of  paper,  with  some 
lines  of  Avriting  on  it. 

"From  ye  ken  who,"  he  explained,  jocosely.  "A  bit  love- 
2etter,  I  trow,  from  him  that's  dear  to  ye.  Eh  !  he's  an  awfu' 
reprobate  is  him  that's  dear  to  ye.  Miss,  in  the  bed-chamber 
there,  will  nae  doot  be  the  one  he's  jilted  for  you?    I  see  it  all 


MAN    AND   WIFE.  139 

— ye  can't  blind  Me — I  ha'  been  a  frail  person  ray  ain  self  in 
ray  time.  Hech  !  he's  safe  and  sound,  is  the  reprobate.  I  ha' 
lookit  after  a'  his  little  creature-coraforts — I'm  joost  a  fether 
to  him,  as  well  as  a  fether  to  you.  Trust  Bishopriggs — when 
puir  human  nature  wants  a  bit  pat  on  the  back,  trust  Bishop- 
riggs." 

While  the  sage  was  speaking  these  comfortable  words,  Anne 
was  reading  the  lines  traced  on  the  paper.  They  were  signed 
by  Arnold  ;  and  they  ran  thus : 

"  I  am  in  the  smoking-room  of  the  inn.  It  rests  with  you 
to  say  whether  I  must  stop  there.  I  don't  believe  Blanche 
would  be  jealous.  If  I  knew  how  to  explain  ray  being  at  the 
inn  without  betraying  the  confidence  which  you  and  GeoftVey 
have  placed  in  me,  I  wouldn't  be  away  from  her  another  mo- 
ment. It  does  grate  on  me  so  !  At  the  same  time,  I  don't 
want  to  make  your  position  harder  than  it  is.  Think  of  your- 
self first.  I  leave  it  in  your  hands.  You  have  only  to  say. 
Wait,  by  the  beai-er — and  I  shall  understand  that  I  am  to  stay 
where  I  am  till  I  hear  from  you  again." 

Anne  looked  up  from  the  raessage. 

"  Ask  him  to  wait,"  she  said ;  "  and  I  will  send  word  to  him 
again." 

"  Wi'  mony  loves  and  kisses,"  suggested  Mr.  Bishopriggs, 
as  a  necessary  supplement  to  the  message.  "  Eh  !  it  comes  as 
easy  as  A  B  C  to  a  man  o'  my  experience.  Ye  can  ha'  nae 
better  gae-between  than  yer  puir  servant  to  command  Sawm- 
uel  Bishopriggs.  I  understand  ye  baith  pairfeckly."  He  laid 
his  forefinger  along  his  flaraing  nose,  and  withdrew. 

Without  allowing  herself  to  hesitate  for  an  instant,  Anne 
opened  the  bedroom  door — with  the  resolution  of  relieving 
Arnold  from  the  new  sacrifice  imposed  on  him  by  owning  the 
truth. 

"  Is  that  you  ?"  asked  Blanche. 

At  the  sound  of  her  voice,  Anne  started  back  guiltily.  "  I'll 
be  with  you  in  a  moment,"  she  answered,  and  closed  the  door 
again  between  them. 

No !  it  was  not  to  be  done.  Something  in  Blanche's  trivial 
question — or  something,  perhaps,  in  the  sight  of  Blanche's  face 
— roused  the  warning  instinct  in  Anne,  which  silenced  her  on 
the  very  brink  of  the  disclosure.  At  the  last  raoraent,  the 
iron  chain  of  circumstances  made  itself  felt,  binding  her  with- 
out mercy  to  the  hateful,  the  degrading  deceit.  Could  she 
own  the  truth,  about  GeoiFrey  and  herself,  to  Blanche  ?  and, 
without  owning  it,  could  she  explain  and  justify  Arnold's  con- 
duct in  joining  her  privately  at  Craig  Fernie  ?  A  shameful 
confession  made  to  an  innocent  girl ;  a  risk  of  fatally  shaking 
Arnold's  place  in  Blanche's  estimation ;  a  scandal  at  the  inn, 


140  MAN    AND    WIFE. 

in  the  disgrace  of  which  the  others  would  be  involved  with 
herself — this  was  the  price  at  which  she  must  speak,  if  she  fol- 
lowed her  first  impulse,  and  said,  in  so  many  words,  "Arnold  is 
here." 

It  was  not  to  be  thought  of.  Cost  what  it  might  in  present 
wretchedness — end  how  it  might,  if  the  deception  was  discov- 
ered in  the  future — Blanche  must  be  kept  in  ignorance  of  the 
truth ;  Arnold  must  be  kept  in  hiding  until  she  had  gone. 

Anne  opened  the  door  for  the  second  time,  and  went  in. 

The  business  of  the  toilet  was  standing  still.  Blanche  was 
in  confidential  communication  with  Mrs.  Inchbare.  At  the 
moment  when  Anne  entered  the  room  she  was  eagerly  ques- 
tioning the  landlady  about  her  friend's  "invisible  husband" — 
she  was  just  saying,  "Do  tell  me  !  what  is  he  like?" 

The  capacity  for  accurate  observation  is  a  capacity  so  un- 
common, and  is  so  seldom  associated,  even  where  it  does  exist, 
with  the  equally  rare  gift  of  accurately  describing  the  thing  or 
the  person  observed,  that  Anne's  dread  of  the  consequences  if 
Mrs.  Inchbai'e  was  allowed  time  to  comply  with  Blanche's  re- 
quest, was,  in  all  probability,  a  dread  misplaced.  Right  or 
wrong,  however,  the  alarm  that  she  felt  hurried  her  into  tak- 
ing measures  for  dismissing  the  landlady  on  the  spot.  "  We 
liiustn't  keep  you  from  your  occupations  any  longer,"  she  said 
to  Mrs.  Inchbare.  "  I  will  give  Miss  Lundie  all  the  help  she 
needs." 

Barred  from  advancing  in  one  direction,  Blanche's  curiosity 
turned  back,  and  tried  in  another.  She  boldly  addressed  her- 
self to  Anne. 

"  I  must  know  something  about  him,"  she  said,  "  Is  he  shy 
before  strangers  ?  I  heard  you  whispering  with  him  on  the 
other  side  of  the  door.  Are  you  jealous,  Anne  ?  Are  you 
afraid  I  shall  fascinate  him  in  this  dress  ?" 

Blanche,  in  Mrs.  Inchbare's  best  gown — an  ancient  and  high- 
waisted  silk  garment,  of  the  hue  called  "  bottle-green,"  pinned 
up  in  front,  and  trailing  far  behind  her — with  a  short,  orange- 
colored  shawl  over  her  shoulders,  and  a  towel  tied  turban- 
fashion  round  her  head,  to  dry  her  wet  hair,  looked  at  once 
the  strangest  and  the  prettiest  human  anomaly  that  ever  was 
seen.  "  For  Heaven's  sake,"  she  said,  gayly,  "  don't  tell  your 
husband  I  am  in  Mrs.  Inchbare's  clothes !  I  want  to  appear 
suddenly,  without  a  word  to  warn  him  of  what  a  figure  I  am  ! 
I  should  have  nothing  left  to  wish  for  in  this  world,"  she  add- 
ed, "  if  Arnold  could  only  see  me  now  !" 

Looking  in  the  glass,  she  noticed  Anne's  face  reflected  be- 
hind her,  and  started  at  the  sight  of  it. 

"  What  is  the  matter  ?"  she  asked.  "  Your  face  frightens 
me." 


MAN    AND    WIFE.  141 

It  was  useless  to  prolong  the  pain  of  the  inevitable  misun- 
derstanding between  them.  The  one  course  to  take  was  to  si- 
lence all  further  inquiries  then  and  there.  Strongly  as  she  felt 
this,  Anne's  inbred  loyalty  to  Blanche  still  shrank  from  de- 
ceiving her  to  her  face.  "  I  might  write  it,"  she  thought.  "  I 
can't  say  it,  with  Arnold  Brinkworth  in  the  same  house  with 
her  !"  Write  it  ?  As  she  reconsidered  the  word,  a  sudden 
idea  struck  her.  She  opened  the  bedroom  door,  and  led  the 
way  back  into  the  sitting-room. 

"  Gone  again  !"  exclaimed  Blanche,  looking  uneasily  round 
the  empty  room.  "Anne  !  there's  something  so  strange  in  all 
this,  that  I  neither  can,  nor  will,  put  up  with  your  silence  any 
longer.  It's  not  just,  it's  not  kind,  to  shut  me  out  of  your  con- 
fidence, after  we  have  lived  together  like  sisters  all  our  lives !" 

Anne  sighed  bitterly,  and  kissed  her  on  the  forehead.  "  You 
shall  know  all  I  can  tell  you  —  all  I  dare  tell  you,"  she  said, 
gently.  "  Don't  reproach  me.  It  hurts  me  more  than  you 
think." 

She  turned  away  to  the  side-table,  and  came  back  with  a 
letter  in  her  hand.  "  Read  that,"  she  said,  and  handed  it  to 
Blanche. 

Blanche  saw  her  own  name  on  the  address,  in  the  handwrit- 
ing of  Anne. 

"  What  does  this  mean  ?"  she  asked. 

"  I  wrote  to  you,  after  Sir  Patrick  had  left  me,"  Anne  re- 
plied. "  I  meant  you  to  have  received  my  letter  to-morrow, 
in  time  to  prevent  any  little  imprudence  into  which  your  anx- 
iety might  hurry  you.  All  that  I  can  say  to  you  is  said  there. 
Spare  me  the  distress  of  speaking.     Read  it,  Blanche." 

Blanche  still  held  the  letter,  unopened. 

"A  letter  from  you  to  me!  when  we  are  both  together,  and 
both  alone  in  the  same  room !  It's  worse  than  formal,  Anne  ! 
It's  as  if  there  was  a  quarrel  between  us.  Why  should  it  dis- 
tress you  to  speak  to  me  ?" 

Anne's  eyes  dropped  to  the  ground.  She  pointed  to  the  let- 
ter for  the  second  time. 

Blanche  broke  the  seal. 

She  passed  rapidly  over  the  opening  sentences,  and  devoted 
all  her  attention  to  the  second  paragraph. 

"And  now,  my  love,  you  will  expect  me  to  atone  for  the 
surprise  and  distress  that  I  have  caused  you,  by  explaining 
what  my  situation  really  is,  and  by  telling  you  all  my  plans 
for  the  future.  Dearest  Blanche  !  don't  think  me  untrue  to 
the  affection  we  bear  toward  each  other — don't  think  there  is 
any  change  in  my  heart  toward  you — believe  only  that  I  am 
a  very  unhappy  woman,  and  that  I  am  in  a  position  which 
forces  me,  against  my  own  will,  to  be  silent  about  myself.     Si- 


142  MAN    AND    WIFE. 

lent  even  to  you,  the  sister  of  ray  love — the  one  person  in  the 
world  who  is  dearest  to  me  !  A  time  may  come  when  I  shall 
be  able  to  open  my  heart  to  you.  Oh,  what  good  it  wuU  do 
me !  what  a  relief  it  will  be  !  For  the  present,  I  must  be  si- 
lent. For  the  present,  we  must  be  parted.  God  knows  what 
it  costs  me  to  write  this.  I  think  of  the  dear  old  days  that  are 
gone  ;  I  remember  how  I  promised  your  naother  to  be  a  sister 
to  you,  when  her  kind  eyes  looked  at  me  for  the  last  time — 
your  mother,  who  was  an  angel  from  heaven  to  mine!  All 
this  comes  back  on  me  now,  and  breaks  my  heart.  But  it 
must  be!  my  own  Blanche,  for  the  present,  it  must  be  !  I  will 
write  often — I  will  think  of  you,  my  darling,  night  and  day, 
till  a  happier  future  unites  us  again.  God  bless  you^  my  dear 
one  !     And  God  help  me  .^" 

Blanche  silently  crossed  the  room  to  the  sofa  on  which  Anne 
was  sitting,  and  stood  there  for  a  moment,  looking  at  her. 
She  sat  down,  and  laid  her  head  on  Anne's  shoulder.  Sorrow- 
fully and  quietly,  she  put  the  letter  into  her  bosom — and  took 
Anne's  hand,  and  kissed  it. 

"All  my  questions  are  answered,  dear.  I  will  wait  your 
time." 

It  was  simply,  sweetly,  generously  said. 

Anne  burst  into  tears. 

The  rain  still  fell,  but  the  storm  was  dying  away. 

Blanche  left  the  sofa,  and,  going  to  the  window,  opened  the 
shutters  to  look  out  at  the  night.  She  suddenly  came  back  to 
Anne. 

"  I  see  lights,"  she  said — "  the  lights  of  a  carriage  coming  up 
out  of  the  darkness  of  the  moor.  They  are  sending  after  me 
from  Windygates.  Go  into  the  bedroom.  It's  just  possible 
Lady  Lundie  may  have  come  for  me  herself" 

The  ordinary  relations  of  the  two  toward  each  other  were 
completely  reversed.  Anne  was  like  a  child  in  Blanche's 
hands.     She  rose,  and  withdrew. 

Left  alone,  Blanche  took  the  letter  out  of  her  bosom,  and 
read  it  again,  in  the  interval  of  waiting  for  the  carriage. 

The  second  reading  confirmed  her  in  a  resolution  which  she 
had  privately  taken,  while  she  had  been  sitting  by  Anne  on 
the  sofa — a  resolution  destined  to  lead  to  far  more  serious  re- 
sults in  the  future  than  any  previsions  of  hers  could  anticipate. 
Sir  Patrick  was  the  one  person  she  knew  on  whose  discretion 
and  experience  she  could  implicitly  rely.  She  determined,  in 
Anne's  own  interests,  to  take  her  uncle  into  her  confidence,  and 
to  tell  him  all  that  had  happened  at  the  inn.  "  I'll  first  make 
him  forgive  me,"  thought  Blanche.  "And  then  I'll  see  if  he 
thinks  as  I  do,  when  I  tell  him  about  Anne." 


MAN    AND    WIFE.  143 

The  carriage  drew  up  at  the  door ;  and  Mrs.  Inclibare  show- 
ed in — not  Lady  Liindie,  but  Lady  Lundie's  maid. 

The  woman's  account  of  what  had  happened  at  Windygates 
was  simple  enough.  Lady  Luudie  had,  as  a  matter  of  course, 
placed  the  right  interpretation  on  Blanche's  abrupt  departure 
in  the  pony-chaise,  and  had  ordered  the  carriage,  with  the  firm 
determination  of  following  her  step-daughter  herself.  But  the 
agitations  and  anxieties  of  the  day  had  proved  too  much  for 
her.  She  had  been  seized  by  one  of  the  attacks  of  giddiness 
to  which  she  was  always  subject  after  excessive  mental  irrita- 
tion ;  and,  eager  as  she  was  (on  more  accounts  than  one)  to  go 
to  the  inn  herself,  she  had  been  compelled,  in  Sir  Patrick's  ab- 
sence, to  commit  the  pursuit  of  Blanche  to  her  own  maid,  in 
whose  age  and  good  sense  slie  could  place  every  confidence. 
The  woman — seeing  the  state  of  the  weather — had  thoughtful- 
ly brought  a  box  with  her  containing  a  change  of  wearing  ap- 
parel. In  oiFering  it  to  Blanche,  she  added,  with  all  due  respect, 
that  she  had  full  powers  from  her  mistress  to  go  on,  if  necessa- 
ry, to  the  shooting-cottage,  and  to  place  the  matter  in  Sir  Pat- 
rick's hands.  This  said,  she  left  it  to  her  young  lady  to  decide 
for  herself  whether  she  would  return  to  Windygates,  under 
present  circumstances,  or  not. 

Blanche  took  the  box  from  the  woman's  hands,  and  joined 
Anne  in  the  bedroom,  to  dress  herself  for  the  drive  home. 

"  I  am  going  back  to  a  good  scolding,"  she  said.  "  But  a 
scolding  is  no  novelty  in  my  experience  of  Lady  Lundie.  I'm 
not  uneasy  about  that,  Anne — I'm  uneasy  about  you.  Can  I 
be  sure  of  one  thing — do  you  stay  here  for  the  present?" 

The  worst  that  could  happen  at  the  inn  had  happened. 
Nothing  was  to  be  gained  now — and  every  thing  might  be 
lost — by  leaving  the  place  at  which  Geofirey  had  promised  to 
write  to  her.  Anne  answered  that  she  proposed  remaining  at 
the  inn  for  the  present. 

"  You  promise  to  write  to  me  ?" 

"Yes." 

"  If  there  is  any  thing  I  can  do  for  you — " 

"There  is  nothing,  my  love." 

"  There  may  be.  If  you  want  to  see  me,  we  can  meet  at 
Windygates  without  being  discovered.  Come  at  luncheon- 
time — go  round  by  the  shrubbery — and  step  in  at  the  library 
window.  You  know  as  well  as  I  do  there  is  nobody  in  the  li- 
brary at  that  hour.  Don't  say  it's  impossible — you  don't  know 
what  may  happen.  I  shall  wait  ten  minutes  every  day  on  the 
chance  of  seeing  you.  That's  settled — and  it's  settled  that 
you  write.  Before  I  go,  darling,  is  there  any  thing  else  we 
can  think  of  for  the  future  ?" 

At  those  words  Anne  suddenly  shook  off  the  depression  that 


144  MAN   AND   WIPE. 

weighed  on  her.  She  caught  Blanche  in  her  arms ;  she  held 
Blanche  to  her  bosom  with  a  fierce  energy.  "  Will  you  always 
be  to  me,  in  the  future,  what  you  are  now  ?"  she  asked,  abrupt- 
ly. "  Or  is  the  time  coming  when  you  will  hate  me  ?"  She 
prevented  any  reply  by  a  kiss — and  pushed  Blanche  toward 
the  door.  "  We  have  had  a  happy  time  together  in  the  years 
that  are  gone,"  she  said,  with  a  farewell  wave  of  her  hand. 
"Thank  God  for  that !     And  never  mind  the  rest." 

She  threw  open  the  bedroom  door,  and  called  to  the  maid, 
in  the  sitting-room.  "Miss  Lundie  is  waiting  for  you." 
Blanche  pressed  her  hand,  and  left  her. 

Anne  waited  a  while  in  the  bedroom,  listening  to  the  sound 
made  by  the  departure  of  the  carriage  from  the  inn  door.  Lit- 
tle by  little,  the  tramp  of  the  horses  and  the  noise  of  the  roll- 
ing wheels  lessened  and  lessened.  When  the  last  faint  sounds 
were  lost  in  silence  she  stood  for  a  moment  thinking — then, 
rousing  herself  on  a  sudden,  hurried  into  the  sitting-room,  and 
rang  the  bell. 

"I  shall  go  mad,"  she  said  to  herself,  "if  I  stay  here  alone." 

Even  Mr.  Bishopriggs  felt  the  necessity  of  being  silent  when 
he  stood  face  to  face  with  her  on  answering  tlie  bell. 

"  I  want  to  speak  to  him.     Send  him  hei'e  instantly." 

Mr,  Bishopriggs  understood  her,  and  withdrew. 

Arnold  came  in. 

"Has  she  gone?"  were  the  first  words  he  said. 

"She  has  gone.  She  won't  suspect  jou  when  yoii  see  her 
again.  I  have  told  her  nothing.  Don't  ask  me  for  my  rea- 
sons !" 

"  I  have  no  wish  to  ask  you." 

"  Be  angry  with  me  if  you  like  !" 

"  I  have  no  wish  to  be  angry  with  you." 

He  spoke  and  looked  like  an  altered  man.  Quietly  seating 
himself  at  the  table,  he  rested  his  head  on  his  hand — and  so  re- 
mained silent.  Anne  was  taken  completely  by  surprise.  She 
drew  near,  and  looked  at  him  curiously.  Let  a  woman's  mood 
be  what  it  may,  it  is  certain  to  feel  the  influence  of  any  change 
for  which  she  is  unprepared  in  the  manner  of  a  man — when 
that  man  interests  her.  The  cause  of  this  is  not  to  be  found 
in  the  variableness  of  her  humor.  It  is  far  more  probably  to 
be  traced  to  the  noble  abnegation  of  Self,  which  is  one  of  the 
grandest — and  to  the  credit  of  woman  be  it  said — one  of  the 
commonest  virtues  of  the  sex.  Little  by  little  the  sweet  fem- 
inine charm  of  Anne's  face  came  softly  and  sadly  back.  The 
inbred  nobility  of  the  woman's  nature  answered  the  call  which 
the  man  had  unconsciously  made  on  it.  She  touched  Arnold 
on  the  shoulder. 

"  This  has  been  bard  oo  yo^f,"  she  said.     "  And  I  am  to 


MAN   AND   WIFK.  145 

blame  for  it.  Try  and  forgive  me,  Mr.  Brinkworth.  I  am 
sincerely  sorry.  I  wish  with  all  my  heart  I  could  comfort 
you  !" 

"  Thank  you,  Miss  Silvester.  It  was  not  a  very  pleasant 
feeling,  to  be  hiding  from  Blanche  as  if  I  was  afraid  of  her — 
and  it's  set  me  thinking,  I  suppose,  for  the  first  time  in  my 
life.  Never  mind.  It's  all  over  now.  Can  I  do  any  thing 
for  you  ?" 

"  What  do  you  propose  doing  to-night  ?" 

"  What  I  have  proposed  doing  all  along — my  duty  by  Geof- 
frey. I  have  promised  him  to  see  you  through  your  difficul- 
ties here,  and  to  provide  for  your  safety  till  he  comes  back.  I 
can  only  make  sure  of  doing  that  by  keeping  up  appearances, 
and  staying  in  the  sitting-room  to-night.  When  we  next  meet 
it  will  be  under  pleasanter  circumstances,  I  hope.  I  shall  al- 
w^ays  be  glad  to  think  that  I  was  of  some  service  to  you.  In 
the  mean  time  I  shall  be  most  likely  away  to-morrow  morning 
before  you  are  up." 

Anne  held  out  her  hand  to  take  leave.  Nothing  could  undo 
what  had  been  done.  The  time  for  warning  and  remonstrance 
had  passed  away. 

"  You  have  not  befriended  an  ungrateful  woman,"  she  said. 
"  The  day  may  yet  come,  Mr.  Brinkworth,  when  I  shall  prove 
it." 

"  I  hope  not.  Miss  Silvester.     Good-bye,  and  good  luck  !" 

She  withdrew  into  her  own  room.  Arnold  locked  the  sit- 
ting-room door,  and  stretched  himself  on  the  sofa  for  the  night. 

The  morning  was  bright,  the  air  was  delicious  after  the 
storm. 

Arnold  had  gone,  as  he  had  promised,  before  Anne  was  out 
of  her  room.  It  was  understood  at  the  inn  that  important 
business  had  unexpectedly  called  him  south.  Mr.  Bishopriggs 
had  been  presented  with  a  handsome  gratuity ;  and  Mrs.  Inch- 
bare  had  been  informed  that  the  rooms  were  taken  for  a  week 
certain. 

In  every  quarter  but  one  the  march  of  events  had  now,  to 
all  appearance,  fallen  back  into  a  quiet  course.  Arnold  was 
on  his  way  to  his  estate ;  Blanche  was  safe  at  Windygates ; 
Anne's  residence  at  the  inn  was  assured  for  a  week  to  come. 
The  one  present  doubt  was  the  doubt  which  hung  over  Geof- 
frey's movements.  The  one  event  still  involved  in  darkness 
turned  on  the  question  of  life  or  death  waiting  for  solution  in 
London — otherwise,  the  question  of  Lord  Holchestei''s  health. 
Taken  by  itself,  the  alternative,  either  way,  was  plain  enough. 
If  my  lord  lived — Geofl"rey  would  be  free  to  come  back,  and 
inarry  her  privately  in  Scotland,  If  my  lord  died — Geoffrey 
JO 


146  MAN    AND   WIFK. 

would  be  free  to  send  for  her,  and  marry  her  publicly  in  Lon- 
don.    But  could  Geoffrey  be  relied  on  ? 

Anne  went  out  on  to  the  terrace-ground  in  front  of  the  inn. 
The  cool  morning  breeze  blew  steadily.  Towering  white 
clouds  sailed  in  grand  procession  over  the  heavens,  now  ob- 
scuring, and  now  revealing  the  sun.  Yellow  light  and  purple 
shadow  chased  each  other  over  the  broad  brown  surface  of  the 
moor — even  as  hope  and  fear  chased  each  other  over  Anne's 
mind,  brooding  on  what  might  come  to  her  with  the  coming 
time. 

She  turned  away,  weary  of  questioning  the  impenetrable 
future,  and  went  back  to  the  inn. 

Crossing  the  hall  she  looked  at  the  clock.  It  was  past  the 
hour  when  the  train  from  Perthshire  was  due  in  London. 
Geoffrey  and  his  brother  were,  at  that  moment,  on  their  way 
to  Lord  Holchester's  house. 


THIRD  SCENE.— LONDON. 
CHAPTER  THE  FOURTEENTH. 

GEOFFREY   AS   A    LETTER-WEITER. 

Lord  Holchester's  servants — with  the  butler  at  their  head 
— were  on  the  look-out  for  Mr.  Julius  Delamayn's  arrival  from 
Scotland.  The  appearance  of  the  two  brothers  together  took 
the  whole  domestic  establishment  by  surprise.  All  inquiries 
were  addressed  to  the  butler  by  Julius ;  Geoffrey  standing  by, 
and  taking  no  other  than  a  listener's  part  in  the  proceedings. 

"  Is  my  father  alive  ?" 

"  His  lordship,  I  am  rejoiced  to  say,  has  astonished  the  doc- 
tors, sir.  He  rallied  last  night  in  the  most  wonderful  way. 
If  things  go  on  for  the  next  eight-and-forty  hours  as  they  are 
going  now,  my  lord's  recovery  is  considered  certain." 

"What  was  the  illness?" 

"A  paralytic  stroke,  sir.  When  her  ladyship  telegraphed 
to  you  in  Scotland  the  doctors  had  given  his  lordship  up." 

"  Is  my  mother  at  home  ?" 

"Her  ladyship  is  at  home  to  yo?^,  sir." 

The  butler  laid  a  special  emphasis  on  the  personal  pronoun. 
Julius  turned  to  his  brother.  The  change  for  the  better  in 
the  state  of  Lord  Holchester's  health  made  Geoffrey's  position, 
at  that  moment,  an  embarrassing  one.  He  had  been  positively 
forbidden  to  enter  the  house.  His  one  excuse  for  setting  that 
prohibitory  sentence  at  defiance  rested  on  the  assumption  that 
his  father  was  actually  dying.     As  matters  now  stood.  Lord 


MAN    AND    WIFE.  147 

Holchester's  order  remained  in  full  force.  The  imder-servants 
in  the  hall  (charged  to  obey  that  order  as  they  valued  their 
places)  looked  from  "Mr.  GeofiVey"  to  the  butler.  The  but- 
ler looked  from  "Mr.  Geoifrey  "  to  "Mr.  Julius."  Julius  look- 
ed at  his  brother.  There  was  an  awkward  pause.  The  posi- 
tion of  the  second  son  was  the  position  of  a  wild  beast  in  the 
house — a  creature  to  be  got  rid  of,  without  risk  to  yourself,  if 
you  only  knew  how. 

Geoffrey  spoke,  and  solved  the  problem. 

"  Open  the  door,  one  of  you  fellows,"  he  said  to  the  footmen. 
"  I'm  off." 

"  Wait  a  minute,"  interposed  his  brother.  "  It  will  be  a  sad 
disappointment  to  my  mother  to  know^  that  you  have  been 
here,  and  gone  away  again  without  seeing  her.  These  are  no 
ordinary  circumstances,  Geoffrey.  Come  up  stairs  with  me — 
I'll  take  it  on  myself" 

"I'm  blessed  if  I  take  it  on  my&eUV  returned  Geoffrey. 
"  Open  the  door !" 

"  Wait  here,  at  any  rate,"  pleaded  Julius, "  till  I  can  send 
you  down  a  message." 

"  Send  your  message  to  Nagle's  Hotel.  I'm  at  home  at  Na- 
gle's — I'm  not  at  home  here." 

At  that  point  the  discussion  was  interrupted  by  the  appear- 
ance of  a  little  terrier  in  the  hall.  Seeing  strangers,  the  dog 
began  to  bark.  Perfect  tranquillity  in  the  house  had  been  ab- 
solutely insisted  on  by  the  doctors ;  and  the  servants,  all  try- 
ing together  to  catch  the  animal  and  quiet  him,  simply  aggra- 
vated the  noise  he  was  making.  Geoffrey  solved  this  problem 
also  in  his  own  decisive  way.  He  swung  round  as  the  dog 
was  passing  him,  and  kicked  it  with  his  heavy  boot.  The  lit- 
tle creature  fell  on  the  spot,  whining  piteously.  "  My  lady's 
pet  dog  !"  exclaimed  the  butler.  "  You've  broken  its  ribs,  sir." 
"I've  broken  it  of  barking,  you  mean,"  retorted  Geoffrey. 
"  Ribs  be  hanged  !"  He  turned  to  his  brother,  "  That  settles 
it,"  he  said,  jocosely.  "  I'd  better  defer  the  pleasure  of  calling 
on  dear  mamma  till  the  next  opportunity.  Ta-ta,  Julius.  You 
know  where  to  find  me.  Come,  and  dine.  We'll  give  you  a 
steak  at  Nagle's  that  will  make  a  man  of  you." 

He  went  out.  The  tall  footman  eyed  his  lordship's  second 
eon  with  unaffected  respect.  They  had  seen  him,  in  public,  at 
the  annual  festival  of  the  Christian-Pugilistic-Association,  with 
"  the  gloves  "  on.  He  could  have  beaten  the  biggest  man  in 
the  hall  within  an  inch  of  his  life  in  three  minutes.  The  porter 
bowed  as  he  threw  open  the  door.  The  whole  interest  and  at- 
tention of  the  domestic  establishment  then  present  was  concen- 
trated on  Geoffrey.  Julius  went  up  stairs  to  his  mother  with- 
out attracting  the  slightest  notice. 


i48  MAN   AND   WIPE. 

The  month  was  August.  The  streets  were  empty.  The 
vilest  breeze  that  blows — a  hot  east  wind  in  London — was  the 
breeze  abroad  on  that  day.  Even  GeoflVey  appeared  to  feel 
the  influence  of  the  weather  as  the  cab  carried  him  from  his 
father's  door  to  the  hotel.  He  took  off  his  hat,  and  unbutton- 
ed his  waistcoat,  and  lit  his  everlasting  pipe,  and  growled  and 
grumbled  between  his  teeth  in  the  intervals  of  smoking.  Was 
it  only  the  hot  wind  that  wrung  from  him  these  demonstra- 
tions of  discomfort?  Or  was  there  some  secret  anxiety  in  his 
mind  which  assisted  the  depressing  influences  of  the  day? 
There  was  a  secret  anxiety  in  his  mind.  And  the  name  of  it 
was — Anne. 

As  things  actually  w^ere  at  that  moment,  what  course  was 
he  to  take  with  the  unhappy  woman  who  was  waiting  to  hear 
from  him  at  the  Scotch  inn  ? 

To  write?  or  not  to  write?  That  was  the  question  with 
,§e«ffrey. 

r —  The  preliminary  difiiculty,  relating  to  addressing  a  letter  to 
'  Anne  at  the  inn,  had  been  already  provided  for.  She  had  de- 
cided— if  it  proved  necessary  to  give  her  name  before  Geoff"rey 
joined  her — to  call  herself  Mrs.,  instead  of  Miss,  Silvester.  A 
letter  addressed  to  "  Mrs.  Silvester "  might  be  trusted  to  find 
its  way  to  her,  without  causing  any  embarrassment.  The 
doubt  was  not  here.  The  doubt  lay,  as  usual,  between  two  al- 
ternatives. Which  course  would  it  be  wisest  to  take  ? — to  in- 
form Anne,  by  that  day's  post,  that  an  interval  of  forty-eight 
hours  must  elapse  before  his  father's  i*ecovery  could  be  consid- 
ered certain?  Or  to  wait  till  the  interval  was  over,  and  be 
guided  by  the  result  ?  Considering  the  alternatives  in  the 
cab,  he  decided  that  the  wise  course  was  to  temporize  with 
Anne,  by  reporting  matters  as  they  then  stood. 

Arrived  at  the  hotel,  he  sat  down  to  write  the  letter — doubt- 
ed— and  tore  it  up — doubted  again — and  began  again — doubt- 
ed once  more — and  tore  up  the  second  letter — rose  to  his  feet 
— and  owned  to  himself  (in  unprintable  language)  that  he 
couldn't  for  the  life  of  him  decide  w^hich  was  safest — to  write 
or  to  wait. 

In  this  difiiculty,  his  healthy  physical  instincts  sent  him  to 
healthy  physical  remedies  for  relief  "My  mind's  in  a  mud- 
dle," said  Geoff'rey.     "  I'll  try  a  bath." 

It  was  an  elaborate  bath,  proceeding  through  many  rooms, 
and  combining  many  postures  and  applications.  He  steamed. 
He  plunged.  He  simmered.  He  stood  under  a  pipe,  and  re- 
ceived a  cataract  of  cold  water  on  his  head.  He  was  laid  on 
his  back ;  he  was  laid  on  his  stomach ;  he  was  respectfully 
pounded  and  kneaded,  from  head  to  foot,  by  the  knuckles  of  ac- 
PQmplishe4  practitioaers.     He  came  out  of  it  all,  sleek,  clear, 


MAN    AND   WIFE.  149 

rosy,  beautiful.  He  returned  to  the  hotel,  and  took  up  the 
writing  materials — and  behold  the  intolerable  indecision  seized 
him  again,  declining  to  be  washed  out !  This  time  he  laid  it 
all  to  Anne.  "  That  infernal  woman  will  be  the  ruin  of  me," 
said  Geoffrey,  taking  up  his  hat.     "  I  must  try  the  dumb-bells." 

The  pursuit  of  the  new  remedy  for  stimulating  a  sluggish 
brain  took  him  to  a  public-house,  kept  by  the  professional  pe- 
destrian who  had  the  honor  of  training  him  when  he  contend- 
ed at  Athletic  Sports. 

"  A  private  room  and  the  dumb-bells !"  cried  Geoffrey. 
"The  heaviest  you  have  got." 

He  sti'ipped  himself  of  his  upper  clothing,  and  set  to  work, 
with  the  heavy  weights  in  each  hand,  waving  them  up  and 
down,  and  backward  and  forward,  in  every  attainable  variety 
of  movement,  till  his  magnificent  muscles  seemed  on  the  point 
of  starting  through  his  sleek  skin.  Little  by  little  his  animal 
spirits  roused  themselves.  The  strong  exertion  intoxicated 
the  strong  man.  In  sheer  excitement  he  swore  cheerfully — in- 
voking thunder  and  lightning,  explosion  and  blood,  in  return 
for  the  compliments  profusely  paid  to  him  by  the  pedestrian 
and  the  pedestrian's  son.  "  Pen,  ink,  and  paper !"  he  roared, 
when  he  could  use  the  dumb-bells  no  longer.  "My  mind's 
made  up ;  I'll  write,  and  have  done  with  it !"  He  sat  down  to 
his  writing  on  the  spot ;  he  actually  finished  the  letter ;  anoth- 
er minute  would  have  dispatched  it  to  the  post — and,  in  that 
minute,  the  maddening  indecision  took  possession  of  him  once 
more.  He  opened  the  letter  again,  read  it  over  again,  and  tore 
it  up  again.  "I'm  out  of  my  mind  !"  cried  Geoffrey,  fixing  his 
big  bewildered  blue  eyes  fiercely  on  the  professor  who  trained 
him.  "  Thunder  and  lightning  !  Explosion  and  blood  !  Send 
for  Crouch." 

Crouch  (known  and  respected  wherever  English  manhood  is 
known  and  respected)  was  a  retired  prize-fighter.  He  appear- 
ed with  the  third  and  last  remedy  for  clearing  the  mind  known 
to  the  Honorable  Geoffrey  Delamayn — namely,  two  pair  of 
boxing-gloves  in  a  carpet-bag. 

The  gentleman  and  the  prize-fighter  put  on  the  gloves,  and 
faced  each  other  in  the  classically-correct  posture  of  pugilistic 
defense.  "  None  of  your  play,  mind !"  growled  Geoffrey. 
"  Fight,  you  beggar,  as  if  you  were  in  the  Ring  again,  with 
orders  to  win."  No  man  knew  better  than  the  great  and  ter- 
rible Crouch  what  real  fighting  meant,  and  what  heavy  blows 
might  be  given  even  with  such  apparently  harmless  weapons 
as  stuffed  and  padded  gloves.  He  pretended,  and  only  pre- 
tended, to  comply  with  his  patron's  request.  Geoffrey  re- 
warded him  for  his  polite  forbearance  by  knocking  him  down. 
The  great  and  terrible  rose  with  unruffled  composure,     "Well 


150  MAN    AND    WIFE. 

hit,  sir!"  he  said.  "Try  it  with  the  other  hand  now."  Geof- 
frey's temper  was  not  under  similar  control.  Invoking  ever- 
lasting destruction  on  the  frequently-blackened  eyes  of  Crouch, 
he  threatened  instant  withdrawal  of  his  patronage  and  support 
unless  the  polite  pugilist  hit,  then  and  there,  as  hard  as  he 
could.  The  hero  of  a  hundred  fights  quailed  at  the  dreadful 
prospect.  "I've  got  a  family  to  support,"  remarked  Crouch. 
"  If  you  will  have  it,  sir — there  it  is !"  The  fall  of  Geoffrey 
followed,  and  shook  the  house.  He  was  on  his  legs  again  in  an 
instant — not  satisfied  even  yet.  "  None  of  your  body-hitting  !" 
he  roared.  "  Stick  to  my  head.  Thunder  and  lightning  !  ex- 
plosion and  blood  !  Knock  it  out  of  me !  Stick  to  the  head  !" 
Obedient  Crouch  stuck  to  the  head.  The  two  gave  and  took 
blows  which  would  have  stunned — possibly  have  killed — any 
civilized  member  of  the  community.  Now  on  one  side  of  his 
patron's  iron  skull,  and  now  on  the  other,  the  hammering  of  the 
prize-fighter's  gloves  fell,  thump  upon  thump,  horrible  to  hear — 
until  even  Geoffrey  himself  had  had  enough  of  it.  "  Thank  you, 
Crouch,"  he  said,  speaking  civilly  to  the  man  for  the  first  time. 
- "  That  will  do.  I  feel  nice  and  clear  again."  He  shook  his  head 
two  or  three  times ;  he  was  rubbed  down  like  a  horse  by  the 
professional  runner ;  he  drank  a  mighty  draught  of  malt  liquor ; 
he  recovered  his  good-humor  as  if  by  magic.  "  Want  a  pen 
and  ink,  sir  ?"  inquired  his  pedestrian  host.  "  Not  I !"  answered 
Geoffrey.  "The  muddle's  out  of  me  now.  Pen  and  ink  be 
hanged  !  I  shall  look  up  some  of  our  fellows,  and  go  to  the 
play,"  He  left  the  public-house  in  the  happiest  condition  of 
mental  calm.  Inspired  by  the  stimulant  application  of  Crouch's 
gloves,  his  torpid  cunning  had  been  shaken  up  into  excellent 
working  order  at  last.  Write  to  Anne?  Who  but  a  fool 
would  write  to  such  a  woman  as  that  until  he  was  forced  to 
it  ?  Wait  and  see  what  the  chances  of  the  next  eight-and- 
forty  hours  might  bring  forth,  and  then  write  to  her,  or  desert 

Lher,  as  the  event  might  decide.     It  lay  in  a  nutshell,  if  you 
could  only  see  it.     Thanks  to  Crouch,  he  did  see  it — and  so 
away,  in  a  pleasant  temper  for  a  dinner  with  "  our  fellows " 
and  an  evening  at  the  play ! 
y  . 

CHAPTER  THE  FIFTEENTH. 

GEOPFKEY    IN    THE    MARRIAGE    MARKET, 

The  interval  of  eight-and-forty  hours  passed — without  the 
occurrence  of  any  personal  communication  between  the  two 
brothers  in  that  time. 

Julius,  remaining  at  his  father's  house,  sent  brief  written 


MAN    AND    WIFE.  151 

bulletins  of  Lord  Holchester''s  health  to  his  brother  at  the 
hotel.  The  first  bulletin  said,  "  Going  on  well.  Doctors  sat- 
isfied." The  second  was  firmer  in  tone.  "  Going  on  excel- 
lently. Doctors  very  sanguine."  The  third  was  the  most  ex- 
plicit of  all.  "  I  am  to  see  ray  father  in  an  hour  from  this. 
The  doctors  answer  for  his  recovery.  Depend  on  my  putting 
in  a  good  word  for  you,  if  I  can ;  and  wait  to  hear  from  me 
further  at  the  hotel." 

Geoflfrey's  face  darkened  as  he  read  the  third  bulletin.  He 
called  once  more  for  the  hated  writing  materials.  There  could 
be  no  doubt  now  as  to  the  necessity  of  communicating  with 
Anne.  Lord  Holchester's  recovery  had  put  him  back  again  in 
the  same  critical  position  which  he  had  occupied  at  Windy- 
gates.  To  keep  Anne  from  committing  some  final  act  of  de- 
spair, which  would  connect  him  with  a  public  scandal,  and  ruin 
him  so  far  as  his  expectations  from  his  father  were  concerned, 
was,  once  more,  the  only  safe  policy  that  Geoflfrey  could  piirsue. 
His  letter  began  and  ended  in  twenty  words : 

"Dear  Anne, — Have  only  just  heard  that  my  father  is 
turning  the  corner.     Stay  where  you  are.     Will  write  again." 

Having  dispatched  this  Spartan  composition  by  the  post, 
GeoflTrey  lit  his  pipe,  and  waited  the  event  of  the  interview  be- 
'tween  Lord  Holchester  and  his  eldest  son. 

Julius  found  his  father  alarmingly  altered  in  personal  ap- 
pearance, but  in  full  possession  of  his  faculties  nevertheless. 
Unable  to  return  the  pressure  of  his  son's  hand — unable  even 
to  turn  in  the  bed  without  help — the  hard  eye  of  the  old  law- 
yer was  as  keen,  the  hard  mind  of  the  old  lawyer  was  as  clear, 
as  ever.  His  grand  ambition  was  to  see  Julius  in  Parliament. 
Julius  was  ofiering  himself  for  election  in  Perthshire,  by  his 
father's  express  desire,  at  that  moment.  Lord  Holchester  en- 
tered eagerly  into  politics  before  his  eldest  son  had  been  two 
minutes  by  his  bedside, 

"  Much  obliged,  Julius,  for  your  congratulations.  Men  of 
my  sort  are  not  easily  killed.  (Look  at  Brougham  and  Lynd- 
hurst !)  You  won't  be  called  to  the  Upper  House  yet.  You 
will  begin  in  the  House  of  Commons — precisely  as  I  wished. 
What  are  your  prospects  with  the  constituency?  Tell  me  ex- 
actly how  you  stand,  and  where  I  can  be  of  use  to  you." 

"  Surel)^  sir,  you  are  hardly  recovered  enough  to  enter  on 
matters  of  business  yet  ?" 

"  I  am  quite  recovered  enough.  I  want  some  present  inter- 
est to  occupy  me.  My  thoughts  are  beginning  to  drift  back  to 
past  times,  and  to  things  which  are  better  forgotten."  A  sud- 
den contraction  crossed  his  livid  face.     He  looked  hard  at  his 


162  MAN   AND   WIFB. 

son,  and  entered  abruptly  on  a  new  question.  "Julius !"  he 
resumed,  "  have  you  ever  heard  of  a  young  woman  named 
Anne  Silvester?" 

Julius  answered  in  the  negative.  He  and  his  wife  had  ex- 
changed cards  with  Lady  Lundie,  and  had  excused  themselves 
from  accepting  her  invitation  to  the  lawn-party.  With  the 
exception  of  Blanche,  they  were  both  quite  ignorant  of  the  per- 
sons who  composed  the  family  circle  at  Windygates. 

"  Make  a  memorandum  of  the  name,"  Lord  Holchester  went 
on.  "Anne  Silvester.  Her  father  and  mother  are  dead.  I 
knew  her  father  in  former  times.  Her  mother  was  ill-used.  It 
.Vas  a  bad  business.  I  have  been  thinking  of  it  again,  for  the 
first  time  for  many  years.  If  the  girl  is  alive  and  about  the 
world,  she  may  remember  our  family  name.  Help  her,  Julius, 
if  she  ever  wants  help,  and  applies  to  you."  The  painful  con- 
iraction  passed  across  his  face  once  more.  Were  his  thoughts 
taking  him  back  to  the  memorable  summer  evening  at  the 
Hampstead  villa?  Did  he  see  the  deserted  woman  swooning 
at  his  feet  again  ?  "About  your  election  ?"  he  asked,  impa- 
tiently. "  My  mind  is  not  used  to  be  idle.  Give  it  something 
to  do." 

Julius  stated  his  position  as  plainly  and  as  briefly  as  he 
could.  The  father  found  nothing  to  object  to  in  the  report — 
except  the  son's  absence  from  the  field  of  action.  He  blamed 
Lady  Holchester  for  summoning  Julius  to  London.  He  was 
annoyed  at  his  son's  being  there,  at  the  bedside,  when  he  ought 
to  have  been  addressing  the  electors.  "  It's  inconvenient, 
Julius,"  he  said,  petulantly.     "Don't  you  see  it  yourself?" 

Having  previously  arranged  with  his  mother  to  take  the 
first  opportunity  that  ofiered  of  risking  a  reference  to  Geoffrey, 
Julius  decided  to  "  see  it "  in  a  light  for  which  his  father  was 
not  prepared.  The  opportunity  was  before  him.  He  took  it 
on  the  spot. 

"  It  is  no  inconvenience  to  me,  sir,"  he  replied,  "  and  it  is 
no  inconvenience  to  my  brother  either.  Geoffrey  was  anxious 
about  you  too.     Geoffrey  has  come  to  London  with  me." 

Lord  Holchester  looked  at  his  eldest  son  with  a  grimly-satir- 
ical expression  of  surprise. 

"Have  I  not  already  told  you,"  he  rejoined,  "  that  my  mind 
is  not  affected  by  my  illness  ?  Geoffrey  anxious  about  me ! 
Anxiety  is  one  of  the  civilized  emotions.  Man  in  his  savage 
state  is  incapable  of  feeling  it." 

"  My  brother  is  not  a  savage,  sir." 

"  His  stomach  is  generally  full,  and  his  skin  is  covered  with 
linen  and  cloth,  instead  of  red  ochre  and  oil.  So  far,  certainly, 
your  brother  is  civilized.  In  all  other  respects  your  brother  is 
a  savage." 


MAN    AND    WIFE.  153 

"  I  know  what  you  mean,  sir.  But  there  is  something  to  be 
said  for  Geoffrey's  way  of  life.  He  cultivates  his  courage  and 
his  strength.  Courage  and  strength  are  fine  qualities,  surely, 
in  their  way  ?" 

"  Excellent  qualities,  as  far  as  they  go.  If  you  want  to  know 
how  far  that  is,  challenge  Geoffrey  to  write  a  sentence  of 
decent  English,  and  see  if  his  courage  doesn't  fail  him  there. 
Give  him  his  books  to  read  for  his  degree,  and,  strong  as  he  is, 
he  will  be  taken  ill  at  the  sight  of  them.  You  wish  me  to  see 
your  brother.  Nothing  will  induce  me  to  see  him  until  his 
way  of  life  (as  you  call  it)  is  altered  altogether,  I  have  but 
one  hope  of  its  ever  being  altered  now.  It  is  barely  possible 
that  the  influence  of  a  sensible  woman — possessed  of  such  ad- 
vantages of  birth  and  fortune  as  may  compel  respect,  even  from 
a  savage — might  produce  its  effect  on  Geoffrey.  If  he  wishes 
to  find  his  way  back  into  this  house,  let  him  find  his  way  back 
into  good  society  first,  and  bring  me  a  daughter-in-law  to  plead 
his  cause  for  him — whom  his  mother  and  I  can  respect  and  re- 
ceive. When  that  happens,  I  shall  begin  to  have  some  belief 
in  Geoffrey.  Until  it  does  happen,  don't  introduce  your  broth- 
er into  any  future  conversations  which  you  may  have  with  me. 
To  return  to  your  election.  I  have  some  advice  to  give  you  be- 
fore you  go  back.  You  will  do  well  to  go  back  to-night.  Lift 
me  up  on  the  pillow.  I  shall  speak  more  easily  with  my  head 
high." 

His  son  lifted  him  on  the  pillows,  and  once  more  entreated 
him  to  spare  himself. 

It  was  useless.  No  remonstrances  shook  the  iron  resolution 
of  the  man  who  had  hewed  his  way  through  the  rank  and  file 
of  political  humanity  to  his  own  high  place  apart  from  the  rest. 
Helpless,  ghastly,  snatched  out  of  the  very  jaws  of  Death,  there 
he  lay,  steadily  distilling  the  clear  common  sense  which  had 
won  him  all  his  worldly  rewards  into  the  mind  of  his  son. 
Not  a  hint  was  missed,  not  a  caution  was  forgotten,  that  could 
guide  Julius  safely  through  the  miry  political  ways  which  he 
had  trodden  so  safely  and  so  dexterously  himself  An  hour 
more  had  passed  before  the  impenetrable  old  man  closed  his 
weary  eyes,  and  consented  to  take  his  nourishment  and  com- 
pose himself  to  rest.  His  last  words,  rendered  barely  articu- 
late by  exhaustion,  still  sang  the  praises  of  party  manoeuvres 
and  political  strife.  "  It's  a  grand  career  !  I  miss  the  House 
of  Commons,  Julius,  as  I  miss  nothing  else  !" 

Left  free  to  pursue  his  own  thoughts  and  to  guide  his  own 
movements,  Julius  went  straight  from  Lord  Holchester's  bed- 
side to  Lady  Holchester's  boudoir. 

"  Has  your  father  said  any  thing  about  Geoffrey  ?"  was  his 

mother's  first  question  as  soon  as  he  entered  the  room, 

1^* 


154  MAN   ANr   WIFE. 

"  My  father  gives  Geoffrey  a  last  chance,  if  Geoffrey  will 
only  take  it." 

Lady  Holchester's  face  clouded.  "  I  know,"  she  said,  with 
a  look  of  disappointment.  "  His  last  chance  is  to  read  for  his 
degree.  Hopeless,  my  dear.  Quite  hopeless  !  If  it  had  only 
been  something  easier  than  that ;  something  that  rested  with 
me—" 

"It  does  rest  with  you,"  interposed  Julius.  "My  dear 
mother! — can  you  believe  it? — Geoffrey's  last  chance  is  (in 
one  word)  Marriage !" 

"  Oh,  Julius  !  it's  too  good  to  be  true  !" 

Julius  repeated  his  father's  own  words.  Lady  Holchester 
looked  twenty  years  younger  as  she  listened.  When  he  had 
done  she  rang  the  bell. 

"No  matter  who  calls,"  she  said  to  the  servant,  "I  am  not 
at  home."  She  turned  to  Julius,  kissed  him,  and  made  a  place 
for  him  on  the  sofa  by  her  side.  "  Geoffrey  shall  take  that 
chance,"  she  said,  gayly — "  I  will  answer  for  it !  I  have  three 
women  in  my  mind,  any  one  of  whom  would  suit  him.  Sit 
down,  my  dear,  and  let  us  consider  carefully  which  of  the  three 
will  be  most  likely  to  attract  Geoffrey,  and  to  come  up  to  your 
father's  standard  of  what  his  daughter-in-law  ought  to  be. 
When  we  have  decided,  don't  trust  to  writing.  Go  yourself 
and  see  Geoffrey  at  his  hotel." 

Mother  and  son  entered  on  their  consultation — and  innocent- 
ly sowed  the  seeds  of  a  terrible  harvest  to  come. 


CHAPTER  THE  SIXTEENTH. 

GEOFFREY    AS    A   PUBLIC    CHARACTER. 

Time  had  advanced  to  after  noon  before  the  selection  of 
Geoffrey's  future  wife  was  accomplished,  and  before  the  in- 
structions of  Geoffrey's  brother  were  complete  enough  to  Jus- 
tify the  opening  of  the  matrimonial  negotiation  at  Nagle's 
Hotel. 

"  Don't  leave  him  till  you  have  got  his  promise,"  were  Lady 
Holchester's  last  words  when  her  son  started  on  his  mission. 

"If  Geoffrey  doesn't  jump  at  what  I  am  going  to  offer  him," 
was  the  son's  reply,  "  I  shall  agree  with  my  father  that  the 
case  is  hopeless ;  and  I  shall  end,  like  my  father,  in  giving 
Geoffrey  up." 

This  was  strong  language  for  Julius  to  use.  It  was  not 
easy  to  rouse  the  disciplined  and  equable  temperament  of  Lord 
Holchester's  eldest  son.  No  two  men  were  ever  more__thor- 
oughly  unlike  each  other  ChalPthcse  two  brothers.  „It  is  mel; 


^tm;mamxy^!ti>f>ieii;x^mv.;i^-',  JSi.Tr  -•»;.'  iBty  *  jy:-7*rTir  'ffirrAvr.jf /TytMjai 


MAN   AND   WIFE.  155 


anclioly  to  acknowledge  it  of  the  blood-relatioii  of  a  "  stroke 
oav,"  li^wt  it  must  be  owned,  in  the  interests  of  truth,  that  Ju- 
lius cultivated  his  intelligence.  This  degenerate  Briton  could 
digest  books  —  and  couldn't  digest  beer.  Could  learn  lan- 
guages—  and  couldn't  learn  to  row.  Practiced  the  foi-eign 
vice  of  perfecting  himself  in  the  art  of  plajdng  on  a  musical  in- 
strument— and  couldn't  learn  the  English  virtue  of  knowing  a 
good  horse  when  he  saw  him.  Got  through  life  (Heaven  only 
knows  how  !)  without  either  a  biceps  or  a  betting-book.  Had 
openly  acknowledged,  in  English  society,  that  he  didn't  think 
the  barking  of  a  pack  of  hounds  the  finest  music  in  the  world. 
Could  go  to  foreign  parts,  and  see  a  mountain  which  nobody 
had  ever  got  to  the  top  of  yet — and  didn't  instantly  feel  his 
honor  as  an  Englishman  involved  in  getting  to  the  top  of  it 
himself  Such  people  may,  and  do,  exist  among  tlie  inlerior 
races  of  the  Continent.  Let  us  thank  Heaven,  sii',  that  En- 
gland never  has  been,  and  never  will  be,  the  right  place  for 
them  ! 

Arrived  at  Nagle's  Hotel,  and  finding  nobody  to  inquire  of 
in  the  hall,  Julius  applied  to  the  young  lady  who  sat  behind 
the  window  of  "  the  bar."  The  young  lady  was  reading  some- 
thing so  deeply  interesting  in  the  evening  newspaper  that  she 
never  even  heard  him.     Julius  went  into  the  coffee-room. 

The  waiter,  in  his  corner,  was  absorbed  over  a  second  news- 
paper. Three  gentlemen,  at  three  different  tables,  were  ab- 
sorbed in  a  third,  fourth,  and  fifth  newspaper.  They  all  alike 
went  on  with  their  reading  without  noticing  the  entrance  of 
the  stranger.  Julius  ventured  on  disturbing  the  waiter  by 
asking  for  Mr.  Geoffrey  Delamayn.  At  the  sound  of  that  il- 
lustrious name  the  waiter  looked  up  with  a  start.  "Are  you 
Mr.  Delamayn's  brother,  sir?" 

"Yes." 

The  three  gentlemen  at  the  tables  looked  up  with  a  start. 
The  light  of  Geoffrey's  celebrity  fell,  reflected,  on  Geoffrey's 
brother,  and  made  a  public  character  of  him. 

"You'll  find  Mr.  Geoffrey,  sir,"  said  tae  vvaiter,  in  a  flurried, 
excited  manner,  "at  the  Cock  and  Bottle,  Putney." 

"I  expected  to  find  him  here.  I  had  an  a]ipointment  Avith 
him  at  this  hotel." 

The  waiter  opened  his  eyes  on  Julius  with  an  expression  of 
blank  astonishment.     "Haven't  you  heard  the  news,  sir?" 

"No." 

"God  bless  my  soul!"  exclaimed  the  waiter — and  offered 
the  newspaper. 

"  God  bless  my  soul !"  exclaimed  the  three  gentlemen — and 
offered  the  three  newspapers. 

"What  is  it?"  asked  Julius. 


156  MAN   AND   WIFE. 

"  What  is  it  ?"  repeated  the  waiter,  in  a  hollow  voice, 
"The  most  dreadful  thing  that's  happened  in  my  time.  It's 
all  up,  sir,  with  the  Great  Foot-race  at  Fulham.  Tinkler  has 
gone  stale." 

The  three  gentlemen  dropped  solemnly  back  into  their  three 
chairs,  and  i-epeated  the  dreadful  intelligence,  in  chorus — 
"  Tinkler  has  gone  stale." 

A  man  who  stands  face  to  face  with  a  great  national  dis- 
aster, and  who  doesn't  understand  it,  is  a  man  who  will  do 
wisely  to  hold  his  tongue,  and  enlighten  his  mind  without 
asking  other  people  to  help  him.  Julius  accepted  the  waiter'^ 
newspaper, and  sat  down  to  make  (if  possible)  two  discoveries: 
First,  as  to  whether  "  Tinkler  "  did,  or  did  not,  mean  a  man. 
Second,  as  to  what  particular  form  of  human  affliction  you  im- 
plied when  you  described  that  man  as  "  gone  stale." 

There  was  no  difficulty  in  finding  the  news.  It  was  printed 
in  the  largest  type,  and  was  followed  by  a  personal  statement 
of  the  facts,  taken  one  way — which  was  followed,  in  its  turn, 
by  another  personal  statement  of  the  facts,  taken  in  another 
way.  More  particulars,  and  further  personal  statements,  were 
promised  in  later  editions.  The  royal  salute  of  British  jour- 
nalism thundered  the  announcement  of  Tinkler's  staleness  be- 
fore a  people  prostrate  on  the  national  betting-book. 

Divested  of  exaggeration,  the  facts  were  few  enough  and 
simple  enough.  A  famous  Athletic  Association  of  the  North 
had  challenged  a  famous  Athletic  Association  of  the  South. 
The  usual  "  Sports "  were  to  take  place  —  such  as  running, 
jumping,  "  putting  "  the  hammer,  throwing  cricket-balls,  and 
the  like — and  the  whole  was  to  wand  up  with  a  Foot-Race  of 
unexampled  length  and  difficulty  in  the  annals  of  human 
achievement  between  the  two  best  men  on  either  side.  "  Tink- 
ler "  was  the  best  man  on  the  side  of  the  South.  "Tinkler" 
w\as  backed  in  innumerable  betting-books  to  win.  And  Tink- 
ler's lungs  had  suddenly  given  way  under  stress  of  training ! 
A  prospect  of  witnessing  a  prodigious  achievement  in  foot- 
racing, and  (more  important  still)  a  prospect  of  winning  and 
losing  large  sums  of  money,  was  suddenly  withdrawn  from  the 
eyes  of  the  British  people.  The  "  South  "  could  produce  no 
second  opponent  worthy  of  the  North  out  of  its  own  associated 
resources.  Surveying  the  athletic  world  in  general,  but  one 
man  existed  who  might  possibly  replace  "Tinkler" — and  it 
was  doubtful,  in  the  last  degree,  whether  he  would  consent  to 
come  forward  under  the  circumstances.  The  name  of  that  man 
— Julius  read  it  with  horror — was  Geoffrey  Delamayn. 

Profound  silence  reigned  in  the  coffee-room.  Julius  laid 
down  the  newspaper  and  looked  about  him.  The  waiter  was 
busy,  in  his  corner,  with  a  pencil  and   a  betting-book.      The 


MAN   AND   WIFE.  15  V 

three  gentlemen  were  busy,  at  the  three  tables,  with  pencila 
and  betting-books. 

"  Try  and  persuade  him !"  said  the  waiter,  piteously,  as 
Delamayn's  brother  rose  to  leave  the  room. 

"Try  and  persuade  him!"  echoed  tlie  three  gentlemen,  as 
Delamayn's  brother  opened  the  door  and  went  out. 

Julius  called  a  cab,  and  told  the  driver  (busy  with  a  pencil 
and  a  betting-book)  to  go  to  the  Cock  and  Bottle,  Putney. 
The  man  brightened  into  a  new  being  at  the  prospect.  No 
need  to  hurry  him;  he  drove,  unasked,  at  the  top  of  his  horse's 
speed. 

As  the  cab  drew  near  to  its  destination  the  signs  of  a  great 
national  excitement  appeared,  and  multiplied.  The  lips  of 
a  people  pronounced,  with  a  grand  unanimity,  the  name  of 
"Tinkler."  The  heart  of  a  people  hung  suspended  (mostly  iu 
the  public-houses)  on  the  chances  for  and  against  the  possibil- 
ity of  replacing  "Tinkler"  by  another  man.  The  scene  in  front 
of  the  inn  was  impressive  in  the  highest  degree.  Even  the 
London  blackguard  stood  awed  and  quiet  in  the  presence  of 
the  national  calamity.  Even  the  irrepressible  man  with  the 
apron,  who  always  turns  up  to  sell  nuts  and  sweetmeats  in  a 
crowd,  plied  his  trade  in  silence,  and  found  few  indeed  (to  the 
credit  of  the  nation  be  it  spoken)  who  had  the  heart  to  crack 
a  nut  at  such  a  time  as  this.  The  police  were  on  the  spot,  in 
large  numbers,  and  in  mute  sympathy  with  the  people,  touch- 
ing to  see.  Julius,  on  being  stopped  at  the  door,  mentioned 
his  name — and  received  an  ovation.  His  brother  !  oh,  heav- 
ens, his  brother  !  The  people  closed  round  him,  the  people 
shook  hands  with  him,  the  people  invoked  blessings  on  his 
head.  Julius  was  half  suffocated,  when  the  police  rescued  him, 
and  landed  him  safe  in  the  privileged  haven  on  the  inner  side 
of  the  public-house  door.  A  deafening  tumult  broke  out,  as 
he  entered,  from  the  regions  above  stairs.  A  distant  voice 
screamed,  "  Mind  yourselves  !"  A  hatless  shouting  man  tore 
down  through  the  people  congregated  on  the  stairs.  "  Hoo- 
ray !  Hooray  !  He's  promised  to  do  it  !  He's  entered  for 
the  race  !"  Hundreds  on  hundreds  of  voices  took  up  the  cry. 
A  roar  of  cheering  burst  from  the  people  outside.  Reporters 
for  the  newspapers  raced,  in  frantic  procession,  out  of  the  inn, 
and  rushed  into  cabs  to  put  the  news  in  print.  The  hand  of 
the  landlord,  leading  Julius  carefully  up  stairs  by  the  arm, 
trembled  with  excitement.  "  His  brother,  gentlemen  !  his 
brother  !"  At  those  magic  words  a  lane  was  made  througli 
the  throng.  At  those  magic  words  the  closed  door  of  the 
council-chamber  flew  open  ;  and  Julius  found  himself  among 
the  Athletes  of  his  native  country,  in  full  parliament  assem- 
bled.    Is  any  description  of  them  needed?     The   description 


I 


158  MAN    AND    WIFE. 

of  Geoffrey  applies  to  them  all.     The  manhood  and  muscle  of 

England  resemble  the  wool  and  raiitton  of  England,  in  this  re- 
spect, that  there  is  about  as  much  variety  in  a  flock  of  athletes 
as  in  a  flock  of  sheep.  Julius  looked  about  him,  and  saw  the 
same  man  in  the  same  dress,  with  the  same  health,  strength, 
tone,  tastes,  habits,  conversation,  and  pursuits,  repeated  infinite- 
ly in  every  part  of  the  room.  The  din  was  deafening  ;  the  en- 
thusiasm (to  an  uninitiated  stranger)  something  at  once  hid- 
eous and  terrifying  to  behold.  Geofirey  had  been  lifted  bodily 
on  to  the  table,  in  his  chair,  so  as  to  be  visible  to  the  whole 
room.  They  sang  round  him,  they  danced  round  him,  they 
cheered  round  him,  they  swore  round  him.  He  was  hailed,  in 
maudlin  terms  of  endearment,  by  grateful  giants  with  tears  in 
their  eyes.  "  Dear  old  man  !"  "  Glorious,  noble,  splendid, 
beautiful  fellow  !"  They  hugged  him.  They  patted  him  on 
the  back.  They  wrung  his  hands.  They  prodded  and  punch- 
ed his  muscles.  They  embraced  the  noble  legs  that  were  go- 
ing to  run  the  unexampled  race.  At  the  opposite  end  of  the 
room,  where  it  was  physically  impossible  to  get  near  the  hero, 
the  enthusiasm  vented  itself  in  feats  of  strength  and  acts  of 
destruction.  Hercules  I.  cleared  a  space  with  his  elbows,  and 
laid  down — and  Hercules  II.  took  him  up  in  his  teeth.  Hercu- 
les HI.  seized  the  poker  from  the  fire-place,  and  broke  it  on  his 
arm.  Hercules  IV.  followed  with  the  tongs,  and  shattered 
them  on  his  neck.  The  smashing  of  the  furniture  and  the  pull- 
ing down  of  the  house  seemed  likely  to  succeed — when  Geof- 
frey's eye  lighted  by  accident  on  Julius,  and  Geoffrey's  voice, 
calling  fiercely  for  his  brother,  hushed  the  wild  assembly  into 
sudden  attention,  and  turned  the  fiery  enthusiasm  into  a  new 
course.  Hooray  for  his  brother  !  One,  two,  three — and  up 
with  his  brother  on  our  shoulders  !  Four,  five,  six — and  on 
with  his  brother,  over  our  heads,  to  the  other  end  of  the  room  ! 
See,  boys — see  !  the  hero  has  got  him  by  the  collar !  the  hero 
has  lifted  him  on  the  table  !  The  hero,  heated  red-hot  with 
his  own  triumph,  welcomes  the  poor  little  snob  cheerfully, 
with  a  volley  of  oaths.  "  Thunder  and  lightning  !  Explosion 
and  blood  !     What's  up  now,  Julius  ?     "What's  up  now  ?" 

Julius  recovered  his  breath,  and  arranged  his  coat.  The 
quiet  little  man,  who  had  just  muscle  enough  to  lift  a  Diction- 
ary from  the  shelf,  and  just  training  enough  to  play  the  fiddle, 
so  far  from  being  daunted  by  the  rough  reception  accorded  to 
him,  appeared  to  feel  no  other  sentiment  in  relation  to  it  than 
a  sentiment  of  unmitigated  contempt. 

"  You're  not  frightened,  are  you  ?"  said  Geoffrey.  "  Our  fel- 
lows are  a  roughish  lot,  but  they  mean  well." 

"I  am  not  frightened,"  answered  .Tulins.  "I  am  only  won- 
derincr — when  the  Schools  and  Universities  of  England  turn 


MAN  AND  WIFE.  169 

out  such  a  set  of  ruffians  as  these — how  long  the  Schools  and 
Universities  of  England  will  last." 

"  Mind  wliat  you  are  about,  Julius !  They'll  cart  you  out 
of  window  if  they  hear  you." 

"  They  will  only  contirm  my  opinion  of  them,  Geoffrey,  if 
they  do." 

Here  the  assembly,  seeing  but  not  hearing  the  colloquy  be- 
tween the  two  brothers,  became  uneasy  on  the  subject  of  the 
coming  race.  A  roar  of  voices  summoned  Geoffrey  to  an- 
nounce it,  if  there  was  any  thing  wrong.  Having  pacified  the 
meeting,  Geoffrey  turned  again  to  his  brother,  and  asked  him, 
in  no  amiable  mood,  what  the  devil  he  wanted  there? 

"  I  want  to  tell  you  something  before  I  go  back  to  Scot- 
land," answered  Julius.  "My  father  is  willing  to  give  you  a 
last  chance.  If  you  don't  take  it,  my  doors  are  closed  against 
you  as  well  as  his.'''' 

Nothing  is  moi"e  remarkable,  in  its  way,  than  the  sound  com- 
mon sense  and  admirable  self  restraint  exhibited  by  the  youth 
of  the  present  time,  when  confronted  by  an  emergency  in 
which  their  own  interests  are  concerned.  Instead  of  resenting 
the  tone  which  his  brother  had  taken  with  him,  Geoffrey  in- 
stantly descended  from  the  pedestal  of  glory  on  which  he 
stood,  and  placed  himself  without  a  struggle  in  the  hands 
which  vicariously  held  his  destiny — otherwise,  the  hands  which 
vicariously  held  the  purse.  In  five  minutes  more  the  meeting 
had  been  dismissed,  with  all  needful  assurances  relating  to 
Geoffrey's  share  in  the  coming  Sports — and  the  two  brothers 
were  closeted  together  in  one  of  the  private  rooms  of  the  inn. 

"  Out  with  it  l"  said  Geoffrey.  "  And  don't  be  long  about 
it." 

"I  won't  be  five  minutes,"  replied  Julius.  "I  go  back  to- 
night by  the  mail-train ;  and  I  have  a  great  deal  to  do  in  the 
mean  time.  Here  it  is,  in  plain  words :  My  father  consents  to 
see  you  again,  if  you  choose  to  settle  in  life — with  his  approv- 
al. And  my  mother  has  discovered  where  you  may  find  a 
wife.  Birth,  beauty,  and  money  are  all  offered  to  you.  Take 
them — and  you  recover  your  position  as  Lord  Holchester's  son. 
Refuse  them — and  you  go  to  ruin  your  own  way." 

Geoffrey's  reception  of  the  news  from  home  was  not  of  the 
most  re-assuring  kind.  Instead  of  answering,  he  struck  his  fist 
furiously  on  the  table,  and  cursed  with  all  his  heart  some  ab- 
sent woman  unnamed. 

"I  have  nothing  to  do  with  any  degrading  connection  which 
you  may  have  formed,"  Julius  went  on.  "  I  have  only  to  put 
the  matter  before  you  exactly  as  it  stands,  and  to  leave  you  to 
decide  for  yourself  The  lady  in  question  was  formerly  Miss 
Newenden — a  descendant  of  one  of  the  oldest  families  in  En- 


160  MAN    AND    WIFE. 

gland.  She  is  now  Mrs.  Glenarm — the  young  widow  (and  the 
childless  widow)  of  the  great  iron-master  of  tliat  name.  Birth 
and  fortune — she  unites  both.  Her  income  is  a  clear  ten  thou- 
sand a  year.  My  father  can,  and  will,  make  it  fifteen  thousand, 
if  you  are  lucky  enough  to  persuade  her  to  marry  you.  My 
mother  answers  for  her  personal  qualities.  And  my  wife  has 
met  her  at  our  house  in  London.  She  is  now,  as  I  hear,  stay- 
ing with  some  friends  in  Scotland ;  and  when  I  get  back  I  will 
take  care  that  an  invitation  is  sent  to  her  to  pay  her  next  visit 
at  my  house.  It  remains,  of  course,  to  be  seen  whether  you 
are  fortunate  enough  to  produce  a  favorable  impression  on  her. 
In  the  mean  time  you  will  be  doing  every  thing  that  my  father 
can  ask  of  you,  if  you  make  the  attempt." 

Geoftrey  impatiently  dismissed  that  part  of  the  question 
from  all  consideration. 

"  If  she  don't  cotton  to  a  man  who's  going  to  run  in  the 
Great  Race  at  Fulhara,"  he  said, "  there  arc  plenty  as  good  as 
she  is  who  will !     That's  not  the  difficulty.     Bother  thatP'' 

"I  tell  you  again,  I  have  nothing  to  do  with  your  difficul- 
ties," Julius  resumed.  "Take  the  rest  of  the  day  to  consider 
what  I  have  said  to  you.  If  you  decide  to  accept  the  propos- 
al, I  shall  expect  you  to  prove  you  are  in  earnest  by  meeting 
ine  at  the  station  to-night.  We  will  travel  back  to  Scotland 
together.  You  will  complete  your  interrupted  visit  at  Lady 
Lundie's  (it  is  important,  in  my  interests,  that  you  should  treat 
a  person  of  her  position  iu  the  county  with  all  due  respect) ; 
and  my  wife  will  make  the  necessary  arrangements  with  Mrs. 
Glenarm,  in  anticipation  of  your  return  to  our  house.  There 
is  nothing  more  to  be  said,  and  no  further  necessity  of  my 
staying  here.  If  you  join  me  at  the  station  to-night,  your 
sister-in-law  and  I  will  do  all  we  can  to  help  you.  If  I  travel 
back  to  Scotland  alone,  don't  trouble  yourself  to  follow — I 
have  done  with  you."  He  shook  hands  with  his  brother,  and 
went  out. 

Left  alone,  Geoffrey  lit  his  pipe  and  sent  for  the  landlord. 

"  Get  me  a  boat.  I  shall  scull  myself  up  the  river  for  an 
hour  or  two.     And  put  in  some  towels.     I  may  take  a  swim." 

The  landlord  received  the  order — with  a  caution  addressed 
to  his  illustrious  guest. 

"  Don't  show  yourself  in  front  of  the  house,  sir  !  If  you  let 
the  people  see  you,  they're  in  such  a  state  of  excitement,  the 
police  won't  answer  for  keeping  them  in  order." 

"All  right.     I'll  go  out  by  the  back  way." 

He  took  a  turn  up  and  down  the  room.  What  were  the 
difficulties  to  be  overcome  before  he  could  profiit  by  the  golden 
prospect  which  his  brother  had  offered  to  him  ?  The  Sports  ? 
No !     The  committee  had  promised  to  defer  the  day,  if  he 


MAN    AND    WIFE.  161 

wished  it — and  a  month's  training,  in  liis  physical  condition, 
would  be  amply  enough  for  him.  Ilad  he  any  personal  objec- 
tion to  trying  his  luck  with  Mrs.  Glenarm?  Not  he!  Any 
woman  would  do — provided  his  father  was  satisfied,  and  the 
money  was  all  right.  The  obstacle  which  was  really  in  his 
way  was  the  obstacle  of  the  woman  whom  he  had  ruined. 
Anne !  The  one  insuperable  difficulty  was  the  difficulty  of 
dealing  with  Anne. 

"We'll  see  how  it  looks,"  he  said  to  himself,  "after  a  pull 
xip  the  river !" 

The  landlord  and  the  police  inspector  smuggled  him  out  by 
the  back  way  unknown  to  the  expectant  populace  in  front. 
The  two  men  stood  on  the  river-bank  admiring  him,  as  he 
pulled  away  from  them,  with  his  long,  powerful,  easy,  beauti- 
ful stroke. 

"That's  what  I  call  the  pride  and  flower  of  England !"  said 
the  inspector.     "Has  the  betting  on  him  begun  ?" 

"  Six  to  four,"  said  the  landlord,  "  and  no  takers." 

Julius  went  early  to  the  station  that  night.  His  mother 
was  very  anxious,  "Don't  let  Geoflrey  find  an  excuse  in  your 
example,"  she  said,  "  if  he  is  late." 

The  first  person  whom  Julius  saw  on  getting  out  of  the  cai'- 
riage  was  Geoffrey — with  his  ticket  taken,  and  his  portman- 
teau in  charge  of  the  guard. 


FOURTH  SCENE.—WINDYGATES. 
CHAPTER    THE    SEVENTEENTH. 

NEAR   IT. 

The  Library  at  Windygates  was  the  largest  and  the  hand- 
somest room  in  the  house.  The  two  grand  divisions  under 
which  Literature  is  usually  arranged  in  these  days  occupied 
the  customary  places  in  it.  On  the  shelves  which  ran  round 
the  walls  were  the  books  which  humanity  in  general  respects 
— and  does  not  read.  On  the  tables  distributed  over  the  floor 
were  the  books  which  humanity  in  general  reads  —  and  does 
not  respect.  In  the  first  class,  the  works  of  the  wise  ancients ; 
and  the  Histories,  Biographies,  and  Essays  of  writers  of  more 
modern  times  —  otherwise  the  Solid  Literature,  which  is  uni- 
versally respected,  and  occasionally  read.  In  the  second  class, 
the  Novels  of  our  own  day — otherwise  the  Light  Literature, 
which   is   universally   read,  and  occasionally  respected.      At 

11 


162  MAN    AND    WIFE. 

Windygates,  as  elsewhere,  we  believed  History  to  be  high  lit- 
erature, because  it  assumed  to  be  true  to  Authorities  (of  which 
we  knew  little) — and  Fiction  to  be  low  literature,  because  it 
attempted  to  be  true  to  Nature  (of  which  we  knew  less).  At 
Windygates,  as  elsewhere,  we  were  always  more  or  less  satis- 
fied with  ourselves,  if  we  were  publicly  discovered  consulting 
our  History  —  and  more  or  less  ashamed  of  ourselves,  if  we 
were  publicly  discovered  devouring  our  Fiction.  An  archi- 
tectural peculiarity  in  the  original  arrangement  of  the  library 
favored  the  development  of  this  common  and  curious  form  of 
human  stupidity.  While  a  row  of  luxurious  arm-chairs,  in  the 
main  thoroughfare  of  the  room,  invited  the  reader  of  solid  lit- 
erature to  reveal  himself  in  the  act  of  cultivating  a  virtue,  a 
row  of  snug  little  curtained  recesses,  opening  at  intervals  out 
of  one  of  the  walls,  enabled  the  reader  of  light  literature  to 
conceal  himself  in  the  act  of  indulging  a  vice.  For  the  rest, 
all  the  minor  accessories  of  this  spacious  and  tranquil  place 
were  as  plentiful  and  as  well  chosen  as  the  heart  could  desire. 
And  solid  literature  and  light  literature,  and  great  writers  and 
small,  were  all  bounteously  illuminated  alike  by  a  fine  broad 
flow  of  the  light  of  heaven,  pouring  into  the  room  through  win- 
dows that  opened  to  the  floor. 

It  was  the  fourth  day  from  the  day  of  Lady  Lundie's  gar- 
den-party, and  it  wanted  an  hour  or  more  of  the  time  at  which 
the  luncheon-bell  usually  rang. 

The  guests  at  Windygates  were  most  of  them  in  the  garden, 
enjoying  the  morning  sunshine,  after  a  prevalent  mist  and  rain 
for  some  days  past.  Two  gentlemen  (exceptions  to  the  gen- 
eral rule)  were  alone  in  the  library.  They  were  the  last  two 
gentlemen  in  the  world  who  could  possibly  be  supposed  to 
have  any  legitimate  motive  for  meeting  each  other  in  a  place 
of  literary  seclusion.  One  was  Arnold  Brinkworth,  and  the 
other  was  Geofii-ey  Delamayn. 

They  had  arrived  together  at  Windygates  that  morning. 
Geofirey  had  traveled  from  London  with  his  brother  by  the 
train  of  the  previous  night.  Arnold,  delayed  in  getting  away 
at  his  own  time,  from  his  own  property,  by  ceremonies  inci- 
dental to  his  position  which  were  not  to  be  abridged  without 
giving  offense  to  many  worthy  people — had  caught  the  pass- 
ing train  early  that  morning  at  the  station  nearest  to  him,  and 
had  returned  to  Lady  Lundie's,  as  he  had  left  Lady  Lundie's, 
in  company  with  his  friend.  « 

After  a  short  preliminary  interview  with  Blanche,  Arnold 
had  rejoined  Geoffrey  in  the  safe  retirement  of  the  library,  to 
say  what  was  still  left  to  be  said  between  them  on  the  subject 
of  Anne.     Having  completed  his  report  of  events  at  Craig 


MAN   AND   WIFE.  163 

Kernie,  he  "^vas  now  naturally  waiting  to  hear  what  Geoffrey 
had  to  say  on  his  side.  To  Arnold's  astonishment,  Geoffrey 
coolly  turned  away  to  leave  the  library  without  uttering  a 
word.     Arnold  stopped  him  without  ceremony. 

"  Not  quite  so  fast,  Geoffrey,"  he  said.  "  I  have  an  interest 
in  Miss  Silvester's  welfare  as  well  as  in  yours.  Now  you  are 
back  again  in  Scotland, what  are  you  going  to  do?" 

If  Geoflrey  had  told  the  truth,  he  must  have  stated  his  po- 
sition much  as  follows  : 

He  had  necessarily  decided  on  deserting  Anne  when  he  had 
decided  on  joining  his  brother  on  the  journey  back.  But  he 
had  advanced  no  farther  than  this.  How  he  v/as  to  abandon 
the  woman  who  had  trusted  him,  v/ithout  seeing  his  own  das- 
tardly conduct  dragged  into  the  light  of  day,  was  more  than 
he  yet  knew.  A  vague  idea  of  at  once  pacifying  and  deluding 
Anne,  by  a  marriage  which  should  be  no  marriage  at  all,  had 
crossed  liis  mind  on  the  journey.  He  had  asked  himself  wheth- 
er a  trap  of  that  sort  might  not  be  easily  set  in  a  country  no- 
torious for  the  looseness  of  its  marriage  laws — if  a  man  only 
knew  how?  And  he  had  thought  it  likely  that  his  well-in- 
formed brother,  v/ho  lived  in  Scotland,  might  be  tricked  into 
innocently  telling  him  what  he  wanted  to  know.  He  had 
turned  the  conversation  to  the  subject  of  Scotch  marriages  in 
general  by  way  of  trying  the  expei'iraent.  Julius  had  not  stud- 
ied the  question;  Julius  knew  nothing  about  it;  and  there  the 
experiment  had  come  to  an  end.  As  the  necessary  result  of 
the  check  thus  encountered,  he  was  now  in  Scotland  with  ab- 
solutely nothing  to  trust  to  as  a  means  of  effecting  his  release 
but  the  chapter  of  accidents,  aided  by  his  own  resolution  to 
marry  Mrs.  Glenarra.  Such  was  his  position,  and  such  should 
have  been  the  substance  of  his  repl}^,  Avhen  he  was  confronted 
by  Arnold's  question,  and  plainly  asked  what  he  meant  to  do. 

"The  right  thing,"  he  answered,  unblushingly.  "And  no 
mistake  about  it." 

"I'm  glad  to  hear  you  see  your  way  so  plainly,"  returned 
Arnold.  "  In  your  place,  I  should  have  been  all  abroad.  I 
was  wondering,  only  the  other  day,  whether  you  would  end, 
as  I  should  have  ended,  in  consulting  Sir  Patrick." 

Geotirey  eyed  him  sharply. 

"Consult  Sir  Patrick?"  he  repeated.  "Why  would  you 
have  done  that  ?" 

"-/shouldn't  have  known  how  to  set  about  marrying  her," 
replied  Arnold.  "And — being  in  Scotland — I  should  have 
applied  to  Sir  Patrick  (without  mentioning  names,  of  course), 
because  he  would  be  sure  to  know  all  about  it." 

"  Suppose  I  don't  see  my  way  quite  so  plainly  as  you  think," 
said  Geoffrey.     "  Would  you  advise  me — " 


1Q4,  MAN   AND   WIFE. 

"To  consult  Sir  Patrick?  Certainly!  He  has  passed  his 
life  in  the  practice  of  the  Scotch  law.  Didn't  you  know 
that  ?" 

"  No." 

"Then  take  ray  advice — and  consult  him.  You  needn't 
mention  names.     You  can  say  it's  the  case  of  a  friend." 

The  idea  was  a  new  one  and  a  good  one.  Geoffrey  looked 
longingly  toward  the  door.  Eager  to  make  Sir  Patrick  his 
innocent  accomplice  on  the  spot,  he  made  a  second  attempt  to 
leave  the  library;  and  made  it  for  the  second  time  in  vain. 
Arnold  had  more  unwelcome  inquiries  to  make,  and  more  ad- 
vice to  give  unasked. 

"How  have  you  arranged  about  meeting  Miss  Silvester?" 
he  went  on.  "  You  can't  go  to  the  hotel  in  the  character  of 
her  husband.  I  have  prevented  that.  Where  else  are  you  to 
meet  her  ?  She  is  all  alone  ;  she  must  be  weary  of  waiting, 
poor  thing.     Can  you  manage  matters  so  as  to  see  her  to-day  ?" 

After  staring  hard  at  Arnold  while  he  was  speaking,  Geof- 
frey burst  out  laughing  when  he  had  done.  A  disinterested 
anxiety  for  the  welfare  of  another  person  was  one  of  those  re- 
finements of  feeling  which  a  muscular  education  had  not  fitted 
him  to  understand. 

"  I  say,  old  boy,"  he  burst  out,  "  you  seem  to  take  an  ex- 
traordinary interest  in  Miss  Silvester!  You  haven't  fallen  in 
love  with  her  yourself — have  you  ?" 

"  Come  !  come  !"  said  Arnold,  seriously.  "  Neither  she  nor 
I  deserve  to  be  sneered  at  in  that  way.  I  have  made  a  sacri- 
fice to  your  interests,  Geoifrey — and  so  has  she." 

Geoftrey's  face  became  serious  again.  His  secret  was  in 
Arnold's  hands ;  and  his  estimate  of  Arnold's  character  was 
founded,  iinconsciously,  on  his  experience  of  himself  "All 
right,"  he  said,  by  way  of  timely  apology  and  concession.  "I 
was  only  joking." 

"As  much  joking  as  you  please,  when  you  have  married 
her,"  replied  Arnold.  "  It  seems  serious  enough,  to  my  mind, 
till  then."  He  stopped— considered — and  laid  his  hand  very 
earnestly  on  Geofii-ey's  arm.  "Mind!"  he  resumed.  "You 
are  not  to  breathe  a  word  to  any  living  soul  of  my  having 
been  near  the  inn  !" 

"  Pve  promised  to  hold  my  tongue,  once  already.  What  do 
you  want  more  ?" 

"  I  am  anxious,  Geoffrey.  I  was  at  Craig  Fernie,  remember, 
when  Blanche  came  there  !  She  has  been  telling  me  all  that 
happened,  poor  darling,  in  the  firm  persuasion  that  I  was  miles 
off  at  the  time.  I  swear  I  couldn't  look  her  in  the  face  ! 
What  would  she  think  of  me  if  she  knew  the  truth  ?  Pray 
be  careful !  pray  be  careful !" 


MAN    AND    WIPE.  165 

Geoffrey's  patience  began  to  fail  him. 

'  We  had  all  this  out,"  he  said,  "  on  the  way  here  from  the 
Btation,     What's  the  good  of  going  over  the  ground  again  ?" 

"  You're  quite  right,"  said  Arnold,  good-humoredly.  "  The 
fact  is  —  I'm  out  of  sorts  this  morning.  My  mind  misgives 
me — I  don't  know  why." 

"  Mind  ?"  repeated  Geoff'rey,  in  high  contempt.  '*  It's  flesh 
— that's  what's  the  matter  with  you.  You're  nigh  on  a  stone 
over  your  right  weight.  Mind  be  hanged  !  A  man  in  healthy 
training  don't  know  that  he  has  got  a  mind.  Take  a  turn 
with  the  dumb-bells,  and  a  run  up  hill  with  a  great-coat  on. 
Sweat  it  oft*,  Arnold  !     Sweat  it  off"!" 

With  that  excellent  advice,  he  turned  to  leave  the  room  for 
the  third  time.  Fate  appeared  to  have  determined  to  keep 
him  imprisoned  in  the  library  that  morning.  On  this  occa- 
sion, it  was  a  servant  wlio  got  in  the  way — a  servant,  with  a 
letter  and  a  message.     "The  man  waits  for  an  answer." 

Geoff'rey  looked  at  the  letter.  It  was  in  his  brother's  hand- 
writing. He  had  left  Julius  at  the  junction  about  three  hours 
since.     What  could  Julius  possibly  have  to  say  to  him  now  ? 

He  opened  the  letter.  Julius  had  to  announce  that  Fortune 
was  favoring  them  already.  He  had  heard  news  of  Mrs.  Glen^ 
arm,  as  soon  as  he  reached  home.  She  had  called  on  his  wife, 
during  his  absence  in  London — she  had  been  invited  to  the 
house — and  she  had  promised  to  accept  the  invitation  early  in 
the  week.  "  Early  in  the  week,"  Julius  wrote,  "  may  mean  to- 
morrow. Make  your  apologies  to  Lady  Lundie ;  and  take 
care  not  to  offend  her.  Say  that  family  reasons,  which  you 
hope  soon  to  have  the  pleasure  of  confiding  to  her,  oblige  you 
to  appeal  once  more  to  her  indulgence — and  come  to-morrow, 
and  help  us  to  receive  Mrs.  Glenarm." 

Even  Geoff'rey  was  startled,  when  he  found  himself  met  by 
a  sudden  necessity  for  acting  on  his  own  decision.  Anne  knew 
where  his  brother  lived.  Suppose  Anne  (not  knowing  where 
else  to  find  him)  appeared  at  his  brother's  house,  and  claimed 
him  in  the  presence  of  Mrs.  Glenarm  ?  He  gave  ordei's  to 
have  the  messenger  kept  waiting,  and  said  he  would  send  back 
a  written  reply. 

"  From  Craig  Fernie  ?"  asked  Arnold,  pointing  to  the  letter 
in  his  friend's  hand. 

Geoff'rey  looked  up  with  a  frown.  He  had  just  opened  his 
lips  to  answer  that  ill-timed  reference  to  Anne  in  no  very 
friendly  terms,  when  a  voice,  calling  to  Arnold  from  the  lawn 
outside,  announced  the  appearance  of  a  third  person  in  the  li- 
brary, and  warned  the  two  gentlemen  that  their  private  intar- 
view  was  at  an  end. 


166  MAN    AND   WIPB. 


CHAPTER  THE  EIGHTEENTH. 

NEAEEK    STILL. 

Blanche  stepped  lightly  into  the  room,  through  one  of  the 
open  French  windows. 

"  What  are  you  doing  here?"  she  said  to  Arnold. 

"  Nothing.     I  was  just  going  to  look  for  you  in  the  garden." 

"  The  garden  is  insufferable  this  morning."  Saying  those 
words,  she  fanned  herself  with  her  handkerchief,  and  noticed 
Geoffrey's  presence  in  the  room  with  a  look  of  very  thinly  con- 
cealed annoyance  at  the  discovery.  "  Wait  till  I  am  married  !" 
she  thought.  "  Mr.  Delamayn  will  be  cleverer  than  I  take  him 
to  be,  if  he  gets  much  of  his  friend's  company  then .'" 

"A  trifle  too  hot — eh  ?"  said  Geoffrey,  seeing  her  eyes  fixed 
on  him,  and  supposing  that  he  was  expected  to  say  something. 

Having  performed  that  duty,  he  walked  away  without  wait- 
ing for  a  reply ;  and  seated  himself,  with  his  letter,  at  one  of 
the  writing-tables  in  the  library. 

"  Sir  Patrick  is  quite  right  about  the  young  men  of  the  pres- 
ent day,"  said  Blanche,  turning  to  Arnold.  "  Here  is  this  one 
asks  me  a  question,  and  doesn't  wait  for  an  answer.  There  are 
three  more  of  them  out  in  the  garden,  who  have  been  talking 
of  nothing,  for  the  last  hour,  but  the  pedigrees  of  horses  and 
the  muscles  of  men.  When  we  are  married,  Arnold,  don't 
present  any  of  your  male  friends  to  me  unless  they  have  turn- 
ed fifty.  What  shall  we  do  till  luncheon-time  ?  It's  cool  and 
quiet  in  here  among  the  books.  I  want  a  mild  excitement — 
and  I  have  got  absolutely  nothing  to  do.  Suppose  you  read 
me  some  poetry  ?" 

"  While  he  is  here  ?"  asked  Arnold,  pointing  to  the  personified 
antithesis  of  poetry — otherwise  to  Geoffrey,  seated  with  his 
back  to  them  at  the  farther  end  of  the  library. 

"  Pooh  !"  said  Blanche.  "  There's  only  an  animal  in  the 
room.     We  needn't  mind  him  .^" 

"  I  say  !"  exclaimed  Arnold.  "  You're  as  bitter,  this  morn- 
ing, as  Sir  Patrick  himself  What  will  you  say  to  Me  when 
we  are  married,  if  you  talk  in  that  way  of  my  friend  ?" 

Blanche  stole  her  hand  into  Arnold's  hand,  and  gave  it  a  lit- 
tle significant  squeeze.  "  I  shall  always  be  nice  to  you^''  she 
whispered — with  a  look  that  contained  a  host  of  pretty  prom- 
ises in  itself     Arnold  returned  the  look  (Geoffrey  was  unques- 


MAN   AND   WITH.  IBV 

tionably  in  the  way  !).  Their  eyes  met  tenderly  (why  couldn't 
the  great  awkward  brute  write  his  letters  somewhere  else?). 
With  a  faint  little  sigh,  Blanche  dropped  resignedly  into  one 
of  the  comfortable  arm-chairs — and  asked  once  more  for  "  some 
poetry,"  in  a  voice  that  faltered  softly,  and  with  a  color  that 
was  brighter  than  usual. 

"  Whose  poetry  am  I  to  read  ?"  inquired  Arnold. 

"Any  body's,"  said  Blanche.  "  This  is  another  of  my  im- 
pulses. I  am  dying  for  some  poetry.  I  don't  know  whose 
poetry.     And  I  don't  know  why." 

Arnold  went  straight  to  the  nearest  book-shelf,  and  took 
down  the  first  volume  that  his  hand  lighted  on — a  solid  quarto, 
bound  in  sober  brown, 

"  Well  ?"  asked  Blanche.     "  What  have  you  found  ?" 

Arnold  opened  the  volume,  and  conscientiously  read  the  title 
exactly  as  it  stood  : 

" '  Paradise  Lost.     A  Poem.     By  John  Milton.' " 

"  I  have  never  read  Milton,"  said  Blanche.     "  Have  you  ?" 

"Another  instance  of  sympathy  between  us.  No  educated 
person  ought  to  be  ignorant  of  Milton.  Let  us  be  educated 
persons.     Please  begin." 

"At  the  beginning?" 

"  Of  course !  Stop  !  You  mustn't  sit  all  that  way  off — you 
must  sit  where  I  can  look  at  you.  My  attention  wanders  if  I 
don't  look  at  people  while  they  read." 

Arnold  took  a  stool  at  Blanche's  feet,  and  opened  the  "  First 
Book  "  of  Paradise  Lost.  His  "  system  "  as  a  reader  of  blank 
verse  was  simplicity  itself.  In  poetry  we  are  some  of  us  (as 
many  living  poets  can  testify)  all  for  sound  ;  and  some  of  us 
(as  few  living  poets  can  testify)  all  for  sense.  Arnold  was  for 
sound.  He  ended  every  line  inexorably  with  a  full  stop  ;  and 
he  got  on  to  his  full  stop  as  fast  as  the  inevitable  impediment 
of  the  words  would  let  him.     He  began  : 

"  Of  Man's  first  disobedience  and  the  fruit. 
Of  that  forbidden  tree  whose  mortal  taste. 
Brought  death  into  the  world  and  all  our  woe. 
With  loss  of  Eden  till  one  greater  Man. 
Restore  us  and  regain  the  blissful  seat. 
Sing  heavenly  Mnse — " 

"  Beautiful !"  said  Blanche.  "  What  a  shame  it  seems  to  have 
had  Milton  all  this  time  in  the  library  and  never  to  have  read 
him  yet !  We  will  have  Mornings  with  Milton,  Arnold.  He 
seems  long  ;  but  we  are  both  young,  and  we  mat/  live  to  get 
to  the  end  of  him.  Do  you  know,  dear,  now  I  look  at  you 
again,  you  don't  seem  to  have  come  back  to  Windygates  in 
good  spirits  ?" 


168  MAN   AND   WIFE. 

"  Don't  I  ?     I  can't  account  for  it." 

"  I  can.     It's  sympathy  with  Me.     I  am  out  of  spirits  too." 

"  You !" 

"  Yes.  After  what  I  saw  at  Craig  Fernie,  I  grow  more  and 
more  uneasy  about  Anne.  You  will  understand  that,  I  am 
sure,  after  what  I  told  you  this  morning  ?" 

Arnold  looked  back  in  a  violent  hurry,  from  Blanche  to  Mil- 
ton. That  renewed  reference  to  events  at  Craig  Fernie  was  a 
renewed  reproach  to  him  for  his  conduct  at  the  inn.  He  at- 
tempted to  silence  her  by  pointing  to  Geoifrey. 

"  Don't  forget,"  he  whispered,  "  that  there  is  somebody  in 
the  room  besides  ourselves." 

Blanche  shrugged  her  shoulders  contemptuously. 

''  What  does  Jie  matter  ?"  she  asked.  "  What  does  he  know 
or  care  about  Anne  ?" 

There  was  only  one  other  chance  of  diverting  her  from  the 
delicate  subject.  Arnold  went  on  reading  headlong,  two  lines 
in  advance  of  the  place  at  which  he  had  left  off,  with  more 
sound  and  less  sense  than  ever : 

"In  the  beginning  how  the  heavens  and  earth. 
Rose  out  of  Chaos  or  if  8ion  hill — " 

At  "  Sion  hill,"  Blanche  interrupted  him  again. 

"  Do  wait  a  little,  Arnold.  I  can't  have  Milton  crammed 
down  my  throat  in  that  way.  Besides,  I  had  something  to 
say.  Did  I  tell  you  that  I  consulted  my  uncle  about  Anne? 
I  don't  think  I  did.  I  caught  him  alone  in  this  very  room,  I 
told  him  all  I  have  told  you.  I  showed  him  Anne's  letter. 
And  I  said, '  What  do  you  think  ?'  He  took  a  little  time  (and 
a  great  deal  of  snuff)  before  he  would  say  what  he  thought. 
When  he  did  speak,  he  told  me  I  might  quite  possibly  be  right 
in  suspecting  Anne's  husband  to  be  a  very  abominable  person. 
His  keeping  himself  out  of  ray  way  was  (just  as  I  thought)  a 
suspicious  circumstance,  to  begin  with.  And  then  there  was 
the  sudden  extinguishing  of  the  candles,  when  I  first  went  in. 
I  thought  (and  Mrs.  Inchbare  thought)  it  was  done  by  the 
wind.  Sir  Patrick  suspects  it  was  done  by  the  horrid  man 
himself,  to  prevent  me  from  seeing  him  when  I  entered  the 
room.  I  am  firmly  persuaded  Sir  Patrick  is  right.  What  do 
yoti  think?" 

"  I  think  we  had  better  go  on,"  said  Arnold,  witli  his  head 
down  over  his  book,     "  We  seem  to  be  forgetting  Milton." 

"How  you  do  worry  about  Milton!  That  last  bit  wasn't 
as  interesting  as  the  other.  Is  there  any  love  in  Paradise 
Lost?" 

"  Perhaps  we  may  find  some  if  we  go  on," 

"  Very  well,  then.     Go  on.     And  be  quick  about  it." 


MAN    AND    WIPE.  169 

Arnold  was  so  quick  about  it  that  he  lost  his  place.  Instead 
of  going  on  he  went  back.     He  read  once  more: 

"In  the  beginning  how  the  heavens  and  earth, 
liose  out  of  Chaos  or  if  Sion  hill — " 

"  You  read  that  before,"  said  Blanche. 

"I  think  not." 

*'  I'm  sure  you  did.  When  you  said  '  Sion  hill '  I  recollect  I 
thought  of  the  Methodists  directly.  I  couldn't  have  thought 
of  the  Methodists  if  you  hadn't  said  '  Sion  hill.'  It  stands  to 
reason." 

"  I'll  try  the  next  page,"  said  Arnold.  "  I  can't  have  read 
that  before — for  I  haven't  turned  over  yet." 

Blanche  drew  herself  back  in  her  chair,  and  flung  her  hand- 
kerchief resignedly  over  her  face.  "The  flies,"  she  explained. 
"I'm  not  going  to  sleejD.  Try  the  next  page.  Oh,  dear  me, 
try  the  next  page  !" 

Arnold  proceeded : 

"  Say  first  for  heaven  hides  nothing  from  thy  view. 
Nor  the  deep  tract  of  hell  say  first  what  cause. 
Moved  our  grand  parents  in  that  happy  state — " 

Blanche  suddenly  threw  the  handkerchief  ofi"  again,  and  sat 
bolt  upright  in  her  chair.  "  Shut  it  up,"  she  cried.  "  I  can't 
bear  any  more.     Leave  oif,  Arnold — leave  ofl"!" 

"  What's  the  matter  now  ?" 

"'That  happy  state,'"  said  Blanche.  "What  does  'that 
happy  state'  mean?  Marriage,  of  course!  And  marriage  re- 
minds me  of  Anne.  I  won't  have  any  more.  Paradise  Lost  is 
painful.  Shut  it  up.  Well,  ray  next  question  to  Sir  Patrick 
was,  of  course,  to  know  what  he  thought  Anne's  husband  had 
done.  The  wretch  had  behaved  infamously  to  her  in  some  way. 
In  what  way  ?  Was  it  any  thing  to  do  with  her  marriage  ?  My 
uncle  considered  again.  He  thought  it  quite  possible.  Private 
marriages  were  dangerous  things  (he  said) — especially  in  Scot- 
land. He  asked  me  if  they  were  married  in  Scotland.  I 
couldn't  tell  him — I  only  said, 'Suppose  they  were?  What 
then  ?'  '  It's  barely  possible,  in  that  case,'  says  Sir  Patrick, 
'  that  Miss  Silvester  may  be  feeling  uneasy  about  her  marriage. 
She  may  even  have  reason — or  may  think  she  has  reason — to 
doubt  whether  it  is  a  marriage  at  all." 

Arnold  started,  and  looked  round  at  Geofi'rey  still  sitting  at 
£he  writing-table  with  his  back  turned  on  them.  Utterly  as 
Blanche  and  Sir  Patrick  were  mistaken  in  their  estimate  of 
Anne's  position  at  Craig  Pernio,  they  had  drifted,  nevertheless, 
into  discussing  the  very  question  in  which  Geoffrey  and  Miss 
Silvester  were  interested — the  question  of  marriage  in  Scotland. 


IVO  MAN  AND   WIFE. 

It  was  impossible  in  Blanche's  presence  to  tell  Geoffrey  that 
he  might  do  well  to  listen  to  Sir  Patrick's  opinion,  even  at 
second-hand.  Perliaps  the  words  had  found  their  way  to  him  ? 
perhaps  he  was  listening  already,  of  his  own  accord? 

(He  loas  listening.  Blanche's  last  words  had  found  their 
way  to  him,  while  he  was  pondering  over  his  half-finished  let- 
ter to  his  brother.  He  waited  to  hear  more — without  moving, 
and  with  the  pen  suspended  in  his  hand.) 

Blanche  proceeded,  absently  winding  her  fingers  in  and  out 
of  Arnold's  hair  as  he  sat  at  her  feet : 

"It  flashed  on  me  instantly  that  Sir  Patrick  had  discovered 
the  truth.  Of  course  I  told  him  so.  He  laughed,  and  said  I 
mustn't  jump  at  conclusions.  We  were  guessing  quite  in  the 
dark;  and  all  the  distressing  things  I  had  noticed  at  the  inn 
might  admit  of  some  totally  different  explanation.  He  would 
have  gone  on  splitting  straws  in  that  provoking  way  the  whole 
morning  if  I  hadn't  stopped  him.  I  was  strictly  logical.  I 
said  I  had  seen  Anne,  and  he  hadn't — and  that  made  all  thd 
difference.  I  said,'  Every  thing  that  puzzled  and  frightened  me 
in  the  poor  darling  is  accounted  for  now.  The  law  must,  and 
shall,  reach  that  man,  uncle — and  I'll  pay  for  it !'  I  Avas  so 
much  in  earnest  that  I  believe  I  cried  a  little.  What  do  you 
think  the  dear  old  man  did  ?  He  took  me  on  his  knee  and  gave 
me  a  kiss ;  and  he  said,  in  the  nicest  way,  that  he  would  adopt 
my  view,  for  the  present,  if  I  Avould  promise  not  to  cry  any 
more  ;  and — wait !  the  cream  of  it  is  to  come  !— that  he  would 
put  the  view  in  quite  a  new  light  to  me  as  sooii.as  I  was  com- 
posed again.  You  may  imagine  how  soon  I  dried  my  eyes, 
and  what  a  picture  of  composure  I  presented  in  the  course  oi 
half  a  minute.  'Let  us  take  it  for  granted,'  says  Sir  Patrick, 
'  that  this  man  unknown  has  really  tried  to  deceive  Miss  Sil- 
vester, as  you  and  I  suppose.  I  can  tell  you  one  thing  :  it'a 
as  likely  as  not  that,  in  trying  to  overreach  her,  he  may  (with- 
out in  the  least  suspecting  it)  have  ended  in  overreaching  him- 
self " 

(Geoffrey  held  his  breath.  The  pen  dropped  unheeded  from 
his  fingers.  It  was  coming  !  The  light  that  his  brother  couldn't 
throw  on  the  subject  was  dawning  on  it  at  last !) 

Blanche  resumed  : 

"  I  was  so  interested,  and  it  made  such  a  tremendous  im- 
pression on  me,  that  I  haven't  forgotten  a  word.  '  I  mustn't 
make  that  poor  little  head  of  yours  ache  with  Scotch  law,'  my 
uncle  said  ;  '  I  must  put  it  ])lainly.  Tliere  are  marriages  al- 
lowed in  Scotland,  Blanche,  which  ai-e  called  Irregular  Mar- 
riages— and  very  abominable  things  they  are.  But  they  have 
this  accidental  merit  in  the  present  case.  It  is  extremely  diffi- 
cult for  a  man  to  pretend  to  marry  in  Scotland,  and  not  really 


MAN   AND    WIFE.  171 

to  do  it.  And  it  is,  on  the  other  hand,  extremely  easy  for  a 
man  to  drift  into  marrying  in  Scotland  without  feeling  the 
slightest  suspicion  of  having  done  it  himself  That  was  ex- 
actly what  he  said,  Arnold.  When  ice  are  married,  it  slia'n't 
be  in  Scotland  !" 

(Geoffrey's  ruddy  color  paled.  If  this  was  true,  he  might 
be  caught  himself  in  the  trap  which  he  had  schemed  to  set  for 
Anne  !  Blanche  went  on  with  her  narrative.  He  waited  and 
listened.) 

"My  uncle  asked  me  if  I  understood  him  so  far.  It  was  as 
plain  as  the  sun  at  noonday;  of  course  I  understood  him! 
'Very  well,  then — now  for  the  application  !'  says  Sir  Patrick. 
'Once  more  supposing  our  guess  to  be  the  right  one.  Miss  Sil- 
vester may  be  making  herself  very  unliaiipy  without  any  real 
cause.  If  this  invisible  man  at  Craig  Feriiie  has  actually  med- 
dled, I  won't  say  with  marrying  hei-,  but  only  with  pretending 
to  make  her  his  wife,  and  if  he  has  attempted  it  in  Scotland, 
the  chances  are  nine  to  one  (though  he  may  not  believe  it,  and 
though  she  may  not  believe  it)  that  he  has  really  married  her, 
after  all.'  My  uncle's  own  words  again  !  Quite  needless  to 
say  that,  half  an  hour  after  they  were  out  of  his  lips,  I  had 
sent  them  to  Craig  Fernie  in  a  letter  to  Anne  !" 

(Geoffrey's  stolidly-staring  eyes  suddenly  brightened.  A 
light  of  the  devil's  own  striking  illuminated  him.  An  idea  of 
the  devil's  own  bringing  entei'ed  his  mind.  He  looked  stealth- 
ily round  at  the  man  whose  life  he  had  saved — at  the  man  who 
liad  devotedly  served  him  in  return.  A  liideous  cunning  leered 
at  his  mouth  and  peeped  out  of  his  eyes.  "  Arnold  Brinkworth 
pretended  to  be  married  to  her  at  the  inn.  By  the  lord  Harry  ! 
that's  a  way  out  of  it  that  never  struck  me  before  !"  With 
that  thought  in  his  heart  he  turned  back  again  to  his  half-fin- 
ished letter  to  Julius.  For  once  in  his  life  he  was  strongly, 
fiercely  agitated.  For  once  in  his  life  he  was  daunted — and 
that  by  his  own  thought !  He  had  written  to  Julius  under  a 
strong  sense  of  the  necessity  of  gaining  time  to  delude  Anne 
into  leaving  Scotland  before  he  ventured  on  paying  his  ad- 
dresses to  Mrs.  Glenarm.  His  letter  contained  a  string  of 
clumsy  excuses,  intended  to  delay  his  i-eturn  to  his  brother's 
house.  "No,"  he  said  to  himself,  as  he  read  it  again.  "  What- 
ever else  may  do — this  won't !"  He  looked  round  once  more  at 
Arnold,  and  slowly  toi-e  the  letter  into  fragments  as  he  looked.) 

In  the  mean  time  Blanche  had  not  done  yet.  "  No,"  she 
eaid,  when  Arnold  proposed  an  adjournment  to  the  garden  ;  "  I 
have  something  more  to  say,  and  you  are  interested  in  it  this 
time."  Arnold  resigned  himself  to  listen,  and,  worse  still,  to 
answer,  if  there  was  no  help  for  it,  in  the  character  of  an  inno- 
cent stransier  \<\\o  had  nevei-  been  near  the  Craig  Fernie  inn. 


172  MAN    AND    WIFE. 

"  Well,"  Blanche  resumed,  "  aud  what  do  you  think  has  come 
of  my  letter  to  Anne  ?" 

"  I'm  sure  I  don't  know." 

"  Nothing  has  come  of  it !" 

"  Indeed  ?" 

"Absolutely  nothing!  I  know  she  received  the  letter  yes- 
terday morning.  I  ought  to  have  had  the  answer  to-day  at 
breakfast." 

"  Perhaps  she  thought  it  didn't  require  an  answer." 

"  She  couldn't  have  thought  that,  for  reasons  that  I  know  of. 
Besides,  in  my  letter  yesterday,  I  implored  her  to  tell  me  (if  it 
was  one  line  onl}-)  whether,  in  guessing  at  what  her  trouble 
was.  Sir  Patrick  and  I  had  not  guessed  right.  And  here  is  the 
day  getting  on,  and  no  answer !     What  am  I  to  conclude  ?" 

"  I  really  can't  say  !" 

"  Is  it  jjossible,  Arnold,  that  we  have  not  guessed  right,  after 
all?  Is  the  wickedness  of  that  man  who  blew  the  candles  out 
wickedness  beyond  our  discovering?  The  doubt  is  so  dread- 
ful that  I  have  made  up  my  mind  not  to  bear  it  after  to-day. 
I  count  on  your  sympathy  and  assistance  when  to-morrow 
comes !" 

Arnold's  heart  sank.  Some  new  complication  was  evidently 
gathering  round  him.  He  waited  in  silence  to  hear  the  worst. 
Blanche  bent  forward,  and  whispered  to  him. 

"  This  is  a  secret,"  she  said.  "  If  that  creature  at  the  writ- 
ing-table has  ears  for  any  thing  but  rowing  and  racing,  he 
mustn't  hear  this !  Anne  may  come  to  me  privately  to-day 
while  you  are  all  at  luncheon.  If  she  doesn't  come,  and  if  I 
don't  hear  from  her,  then  the  mystery  of  her  silence  must  be 
cleared  up ;  and  You  must  do  it !" 

"  I !" 

"Don't  make  difficulties!  If  you  can't  find  your  way  to 
Craig  Fernie,  I  can  help  you.  As  for  Anne,  you  kiiow  what  a 
charming  person  she  is,  and  you  know  she  will  receive  you 
perfectly,  for  my  sake.  I  must  and  will  have  some  news  of 
her.  I  can't  break  the  laws  of  the  household  a  second  time. 
Sir  Patrick  sympathizes,  but  he  won't  stir.  Lady  Lundie  is  a 
bitter  enemy.  The  servants  are  threatened  with  the  loss  of 
their  places  if  any  one  of  them  goes  near  Anne.  There  is  no^ 
body  but  you.  And  to  Anne  you  go  to-morrow,  if  I  don't  sefe 
her  or  hear  from  her  to-day  !" 

This  to  the  man  who  had  passed  as  Anne's  husband  at  the 
inn,  and  who  had  been  forced  into  the  most  intimate  knowl- 
edge of  Anne's  miserable  secret  !  Arnold  rose  to  put  Milton 
away,  wnth  the  composure  of  sheer  despair.  Any  other  secret 
he  might,  in  the  last  resort,  have  confided  to  the  discretion  of 
a  third  person.     But  a  woman's  secret — with  a  woman's  repu- 


MAN   AND   WlfB.  173 

tation  depending  on  his  keeping  it — was  not  to  be  confided  to 
any  body,  under  any  stress  of  circumstances  whatever.  "  If 
Geoffrey  doesn't  get  me  out  of  this,''''  he  thought,  "  I  shall  have 
no  choice  but  to  leave  Windygates  to-morrow." 

As  he  replaced  the  book  on  the  shelf.  Lady  Lundie  entered 
the  library  from  the  garden. 

"  What  are  you  doing  here  ?"  she  said  to  her  step-daughter. 

"  Improving  my  mind,"  replied  Blanche.  "  Mr.  Brinkworth 
and  I  have  been  reading  Milton." 

"  Can  you  condescend  so  far,  after  reading  Milton  all  the 
morning,  as  to  help  me  with  the  invitations  for  the  dinner  next 
week?" 

"  If  i/ou  can  condescend.  Lady  Lundie,  after  feeding  the  poul- 
try all  the  morning,  I  must  be  humility  itself  after  only  reading 
Milton  !" 

With  that  little  interchange  of  the  acid  amenities  of  femi- 
nine intercourse,  step-mother  and  step-daughter  withdrew  to 
a  writing-table,  to  put  the  virtue  of  hospitality  in  practice  to- 
gether. 

Arnold  joined  his  friend  at  the  other  end  of  the  library. 

Geoffrey  was  sitting  with  his  elbows  on  the  desk,  and  his 
clenched  fists  dug  into  his  cheeks.  Great  drops  of  perspiration 
stood  on  his  forehead,  and  the  fragments  of  a  torn  letter  lay 
scattered  all  round  him.  He  exhibited  symptoms  of  nervous 
sensibility  for  the  first  time  in  his  life — he  started  when  Ar- 
nold spoke  to  him. 

"  What's  the  matter,  Geoffrey  ?" 

"A  letter  to  answer.     And  I  don't  know  how." 

"  From  Miss  Silvester  ?"  asked  Arnold,  dropping  his  voice 
so  as  to  prevent  the  ladies  at  the  other  end  of  the  room  from 
hearing  him. 

"  No,"  answered  Geoffrey,  in  a  lower  voice  still. 

"  Have  you  heard  what  Blanche  has  been  saying  to  me 
about  Miss  Silvester?" 

"  Some  of  it." 

"Did  you  hear  Blanche  say  that  she  meant  to  send  me  to 
Craig  Fernie  to-morrow,  if  she  failed  to  get  news  from  Miss 
Silvester  to-day  ?" 

"  No." 

*'  Then  you  know  it  now.  That  is  what  Blanche  has  just 
said  to  me." 

"  Well  ?" 

"  Well — there's  a  limit  to  what  a  man  can  expect  even  from 
his  best  friend.  I  hope  you  won't  ask  me  to  be  Blanche's  mes- 
senger to-morrow.  I  can't  and  won't  go  back  to  the  inn  as 
thing's  are  now," 

'■  You  have  had  enough  of  it — eh  ?" 


174  MAN    AND   WIFE. 

"  I  have  had  enough  of  distressing  Miss  Silvester,  and  more 
than  enough  of  deceiving  Blanche." 

"  What  do  you  mean  by  '  distressing  Miss  Silvester?'  " 

"  She  doesn't  take  the  same  easy  view  that  you  and  I  do, 
Geoffrey,  of  my  passing  her  off  on  the  people  of  the  inn  as  my 
wife." 
^^  Treoffrey  absently  took  up  a  paper-knife.  Still  with  his  head 
down,  he  began  shaving  off  the  topmost  layer  of  paper  from 
the  blotting-pad  under  his  hand.  Still  with  his  head  down, 
he  abruptly  broke  the  silence  in  a  whisper. 

"  I  say !" 

"Yes?" 

"  How  did  you  manage  to  pass  her  off  as  your  wife  ?" 

"*I  told  you  how,  as  we  were  driving  from  the  station  here." 

"  I  was  thinking  of  something  else.     Tell  me  again." 

Arnold  told  him  once  more  what  had  happened  at  the  inn. 
feoffrey  listened,  without  making  any  remark.     He  balanced 
the  paper-knife  vacantly  on  one  of  his  fingers.    He  was  strange- 
ly sluggish  and  strangely  silent. 

"  All  that  is  done  and  ended,"  said  Arnold,  shaking  him  by 
the  shoulder.  "  It  rests  with  you  now  to  get  me  out  of  the 
difficulty  I'm  placed  in  with  Blanche.  Things  must  be  settled 
with  Miss  Silvester  to-day." 

"  Things  shall  be  settled." 

"Shall  be?     What  are  you  waiting  for?" 

"I'm  waiting  to  do  what  you  told  me." 

"  What  I  totd  you  ?" 

"  Didn't  you  tell  me  to  consult  Sir  Patrick  before  I  married 
her  ?" 

"  To  be  sure  !  so  I  did." 

"  Well — I  am  waiting  for  a  chance  with  Sir  Patrick." 

"  And  then  ?" 

"And  then — "  He  looked  at  Arnold  for  the  first  time. 
"Then,"  he  said,  "  you  may  consider  it  settled." 

"  The  marriage  ?" 

He  suddenly  looked  down  again  at  the  blotting-pad.  "  Yes 
— the  marriage." 

Arnold  offered  his  hand  in  congratulation.  Geoffrey  never 
noticed  it.  His  eyes  Ave  re  off  the  blotting-pad  again.  He  was 
looking  out  of  the  window  near  him. 

"  Don't  I  hear  voices  outside  ?"  he  asked. 

"  I  believe  our  friends  are  in  the  garden,"  said  Arnold.  "  Sir 
Patrick  may  be  among  them.     I'll  go  and  see." 

The  instant  his  back  was  turned  Geoffrey  snatched  up  a 
sheet  of  note-paper.  "  Before  I  forget  it !"  he  said  to  himself 
He  wrote  the  word  "Memorandum"  at  the  top  of  the  page, 
and  added  these  lines  beneath  it : 


MAN    AND   WIFK.  176 

"  He  asked  for  her  by  the  name  of  his  wife  at  the  door.  He 
said,  at  dinner,  before  the  landlady  and  the  waiter,  '  I  take 
these  rooms  for  my  wife.'  He  made  her  say  he  was  her  hus- 
band at  the  same  time.  After  that  he  stopped  all  night. 
What  do  the  lawyers  call  this  in  Scotland  ? — (Query :  a  mar- 
riage ?)" 

After  folding  up  the  paper,  he  hesitated  for  a  moment. 
"  No  !"  he  thought.  "  It  won't  do  to  trust  to  what  Miss  Lun- 
die  said  about  it,  I  can't  be  certain  till  I  have  consulted  Sir 
Patrick  himself" 

He  put  the  paper  away  in  his  pocket,  and  wiped  the  heavy 
perspiration  from  his  forehead.  He  was  pale — for  hiin^  strik- 
ingly pale — when  Arnold  came  back. 

"  Any  thing  wrong,  Geoffrey  ? — you're  as  white  as  ashes." 

"  It's  the  heat.     Where's  Sir  Patrick  ?" 

"You  may  see  for  yourself" 

Arnold  pointed  to  the  window.  Sir  Patrick  was  crossing 
the  lawn,  on  his  way  to  the  library,  with  a  newspaper  in  his 
hand  ;  and  the  guests  at  Windygatcs  were  accompanying  him. 
Sir  Patrick  was  smiling,  and  saying  nothing.  The  guests 
were  talking  excitedly  at  the  tops  of  their  voices.  There  had 
apparently  been  a  collision  of  some  kind  between  the  old 
school  and  the  new.  Arnold  directed  Geoffrey's  attention  to 
the  state  of  affairs  on  the  lawn. 

"How  are  you  to  consult  Sir  Patrick  with  all  those  people 
about  him?" 

"  I'll  consult  Sir  Patrick,  if  I  take  him  by  the  scruff  of  the 
neck  and  cany  him  into  the  next  county?"  He  rose  to  his 
feet  as  he  spoke  those  words,  and  emphasized  them  under  his 
breath  with  an  oath. 

Sir  Patrick  entered  the  library,  with  the  guests  at  his  heels. 


CHAPTER  THE  NINETEENTH. 

CLOSE    ON   IT. 

The  object  of  the  invasion  of  the  library  by  the  party  in 
the  garden  appeai*ed  to  be  twofold. 

Sir  Patrick  had  entered  the  room  to  restore  the  newspaper 
to  the  place  from  which  he  had  taken  it.  The  guests,  to  the 
number  of  five,  had  followed  him,  to  appeal  in  a  body  to  Geof- 
frey Delamayn.  Between  these  two  apparently  dissimilar  mo- 
tives there  was  a  connection,  not  visible  on  the  surface,  which 
was  now  to  assert  itself 

Of  the  five  guests,  two  were  middle-aged  gentlemen  belong- 
ing to  that  large,  but  indistinct,  division  of  the  human  family 


176  MAN   AND   WIFE. 

whom  the  hand  of  Nature  has  painted  in  unobtrusive  neutral 
tint.  They  had  absorbed  the  ideas  of  their  time  with  such 
receptive  capacity  as  they  possessed;  and  they  occupied  much 
the  same  place  in  society  which  the  chorus  in  an  opera  occupies 
on  the  stage.  They  echoed  the  prevalent  sentiment  of  the  mo- 
ment ;  and  they  gave  the  solo-talker  time  to  fetch  his  breath. 

The  three  remaining  guests  were  on  the  right  side  of  thirty. 
All  profoundly  versed  in  horse -racing,  in  athletic  sports,  in 
pipes,  beer,  billiards,  and  betting.  All  profoundly  ignorant  of 
every  thing  else  under  the  sun.  All  gentlemen  by  birth,  and 
all  marked  as  such  by  the  stamp  of  "  a  University  education." 
They  may  be  personally  described  as  faint  reflections  of  Geof- 
frey; and  they  may  be  numerically  distinguished  (in  the  ab- 
sence of  all  other  distinction)  as  One,  Two,  and  Three. 

Sir  Patrick  laid  the  newspaper  on  the  table,  and  placed  him- 
self in  one  of  the  comfortable  arm-chairs.  He  was  instantly 
assailed,  in  his  domestic  capacity,  by  his  irrepressible  sister- 
in-law.  Lady  Lundie  dispatched  Blanche  to  him  with  the  list 
of  her  guests  at  the  dinner.  "  For  your  uncle's  approval,  my 
dear,  as  head  of  the  family."  ' 

While  Sir  Patrick  was  looking  over  the  list,  and  while  Ar- 
nold was  making  his  way  to  Blanche,  at  the  back  of  her  un- 
cle's chair.  One,  Two,  and  Three — with  the  Chorus  in  attend- 
ance on  them — descended  in  a  body  on  GeoftVey,  at  the  other 
end  of  the  room,  and  appealed  in  rapid  succession  to  his  sujdc- 
rior  authority,  as  follows  : 

"  I  say,  Delamayu.  We  want  You.  Here  is  Sir  Patrick 
running  a  regular  Muck  at  us.  Calls  us  aboriginal  Britons. 
Tells  us  we  ain't  educated.  Doubts  if  we  could  read,  write, 
and  cipher,  if  he  tried  us.  Swears  he's  sick  of  fellows  showing 
their  arms  and  legs,  and  seeing  which  fellow's  hardest,  and 
who's  got  three  belts  of  muscle  across  his  wind,  and  who 
hasn't,  and  the  like  of  that.  Says  a  most  infernal  thing  of  a 
chap.  Says — because  a  chaj)  likes  a  healthy  out-of-door  life, 
and  trains  for  rowing  and  running,  and  the  rest  of  it,  and  don't 
see  his  way  to  stewing  over  his  books — therefore  he's  safe  to 
commit  all  the  crimes  in  the  calendar,  murder  included.  Saw 
your  name  down  in  the  newspaper  for  the  Foot-race;  and 
said,  when  we  asked  him  if  he'd  taken  the  odds,  he'd  lay  any 
odds  we  liked  against  you  in  the  other  Race  at  the  University 
■ — meaning,  old  boy,  your  Degree.  Nasty,  that  about  the  De- 
gree— in  the  opinion  of  Number  One.  Bad  taste  in  Sir  Pat- 
rick to  rake  up  what  we  never  mention  among  ourselves — in 
the  opinion  of  Number  Two.  Un-English  to  sneer  at  a  man 
in  that  way  behind  his  back — in  the  opinion  of  Number  Tlii-ee. 
Bring  him  to  book,  Delamayn.  Your  name's  in  the  papers; 
he  can't  ride  rough-shod  over  You." 


MAN    AND    TVIFE.  177 

The  two  choral  gentlemen  agreed  (in  the  minor  key)  with 
the  general  opinion.  "Sir  Patrick's  views  are  certainly  ex- 
treme, Smith  ?"  "  I  think,  Jones,  it's  desirable  to  hear  Mr. 
Delamayn  on  the  other  side." 

GeoiFrey  looked  from  one  to  the  other  of  his  admirers  with 
an  expression  on  his  face  which  was  quite  new  to  them,  and 
with  something  in  his  manner  which  puzzled  them  all. 

"  You  can't  argue  with  Sir  Patrick  yourselves,"  he  said, 
"  and  you  want  me  to  do  it  ?" 

One,  Two,  Three,  and  the  Chorus  all  answered, "  Yes." 

"I  won't  do  it." 

One,  Two,  Three,  and  the  Chorus  all  asked,  "  Why  ?" 

"  Because,"  answered  Geoffrey,  "  you're  all  wrong.  And 
Sir  Patrick's  right." 

Not  astonishment  only,  but  downright  stupefaction,  struck 
the  deputation  from  the  garden  speechless. 

Without  saying  a  word  more  to  any  of  the  persons  standing 
near  him,  Geoffrey  walked  straight  up  to  Sir  Patrick's  arm- 
chair, and  personally  addressed  him.  The  satellites  followed, 
and  listened  (as  well  they  might)  in  wonder. 

"You  will  lay  any  odds,  sir,"  said  Geoffrey,  "against  me 
taking  my  Degree  ?  You're  quite  right.  I  sha'n't  take  my 
Degree.  You  doubt  whether  I,  or  any  of  those  fellows  behind 
me,  could  read,  write,  and  cipher  correctly  if  you  tried  us. 
You're  right  again — we  couldn't.  You  say  you  don't  know 
why  men  like  Me,  and  men  like  Them,  may  not  begin  with 
rowing  and  running,  and  the  like  of  that,  and  end  in  commit- 
ting all  the  crimes  in  the  calendar,  murder  included.  Well ! 
you  may  be  right  again  there.  Who's  to  know  what  may  hap- 
pen to  him  ?  or  what  he  may  not  end  in  doing  before  he  dies  ? 
It  may  be  Another,  or  it  may  be  Me.  How  do  I  know  ?  and 
how  do  you  ?"  He  suddenly  turned  on  the  deputation,  stand- 
ing thunderstruck  behind  him.  "  If  you  want  to  know  what 
I  think,  there  it  is  for  you,  in  plain  words." 

There  was  something,  not  only  in  the  shamelessness  of  the 
declaration  itself,  but  in  the  fierce  pleasure  that  the  speaker 
seemed  to  feel  in  making  it,  which  struck  the  circle  of  listen- 
ers, Sir  Patrick  included,  with  a  momentary  chill. 

In  the  midst  of  the  silence  a  sixth  guest  appeared  on  the 
lawn,  and  stepped  into  the  library  —  a  silent,  resolute,  unas- 
suming, elderly  man,  who  had  arrived  the  day  before  on  a 
visit  to  Windygates,  and  who  was  well  known,  in  and  out  of 
London,  as  one  of  the  first  consulting  surgeons  of  his  time. 

"A  discussion  going  on  ?"  he  asked.     "Am  I  in  the  way  ?" 

"There's  no  discussion — we  are  all  agreed,"  cried  Geoffrey, 
answering  boisterously  for  the  rest.     "  The  more  the  merrier. 


sir 


12 


178  MAN  AISTD   WIFE. 

After  a  glance  at  Geoffrey  the  surgeon  suddenly  checked 
himself  on  the  point  of  advancing  to  the  inner  part  of  the 
room,  and  remained  standing  at  the  window. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  said  Sir  Patrick,  addressing  himself  to 
Geoffrey,  with  a  grave  dignity  which  was  quite  new  in  Ar- 
nold's experience  of  him,  "  We  are  not  all  agreed.  I  decline, 
Mr.  Delamayn,  to  allow  you  to  connect  me  with  such  an  ex- 
pression of  feeling  on  your  part  as  we  have  just  heard.  The 
language  you  have  used  leaves  me  no  alternative  but  to  meet 
your  statement  of  what  you  suppose  me  to  have  said  by  my 
statement  of  what  I  really  did  say.  It  is  not  my  fault  if  the 
discussion  in  the  garden  is  revived  before  another  audience  in 
this  room — it  is  yours." 

He  looked,  as  he  spoke,  to  Arnold  and  Blanche,  and  from 
them  to  the  surgeon  standing  at  the  window. 

The  surgeon  had  found  an  occupation  for  himself  which  com- 
pletely isolated  him  among  the  rest  of  the  guests.  Keeping 
his  own  face  in  shadow,  he  was  studying  Geoffrey's  face,  in  the 
full  flood  of  light  that  fell  on  it,  with  a  steady  attention  which 
must  have  been  generally  remarked,  if  all  eyes  had  not  been 
turned  toward  Sir  Patrick  at  the  time. 

It  was  not  an  easy  face  to  investigate  at  that  moment. 

While  Sir  Patrick  had  been  speaking  Geoffrey  had  seated 
himself  riear  the  window,  doggedly  impenetrable  to  the  re- 
proof of  which  he  was  the  object.  In  his  impatience  to  con- 
sult the  one  authority  competent  to  decide  the  question  of  Ar- 
nold's position  toward  Anne,  he  had  sided  with  Sir  Patrick,  as 
a  means  of  ridding  himself  of  the  unwelcome  presence  of  his 
friends — and  he  had  defeated  his  own  purpose,  thanks  to  his 
own  brutish  incapabiUty  of  bridling  himself  in  the  pursuit  of 
it.  Whether  he  was  now  discouraged  under  these  circum- 
stances, or  whether  he  was  simply  resigned  to  bide  his  time 
till  his  time  came,  it  was  impossible,  judging  by  outward  ap- 
pearances, to  say.  With  a  heavy  dropping  at  the  corners  of 
his  mouth,  with  a  stolid  indifference  staring  dull  in  his  eyes, 
there  he  sat,  a  man  forearmed,  in  his  own  obstinate  neutrality, 
against  all  temptation  to  engage  in  the  conflict  of  opinions 
that  was  to  come. 

Sir  Patrick  took  up  the  newspaper  which  he  had  brought  in 
from  the  garden,  and  looked  once  more  to  see  if  the  surgeon 
was  attending  to  him. 

No  !  The  surgeon's  attention  was  absorbed  in  his  own  sub- 
ject. There  he  was  in  the  same  position,  with  his  mind  still 
hard  at  work  on  something  in  Geoffrey  which  at  once  interest- 
ed and  puzzled  it !  "That  man,"  he  was  thinking  to  himself, 
"  has  come  here  this  morning  after  traveling  from  London  all 
night.  Does  any  ordinary  fatigue  explain  what  I  see  in  his 
face?     No!" 


MAN   AND    WIFE.  181 

"  Our  little  discussion  in  the  garden,"  resumed  Sir  Patrick, 
answering  Blanche''s  inquiring  look  as  she  bent  over  him,  "  be- 
gan,  my  dear,  in  a  paragraph  here  announcing  Mr.  Delamayn's 
forthcoming  appearance  in  a  foot-race  in  the  neighborhood  of 
London.  I  hold  very  unpopular  opinions  as  to  the  athletia 
displays  which  are  so  much  in  vogue  in  England  just  now. 
And  it  is  possible  that  I  may  have  expressed  those  opinions  a 
little  too  strongly,  in  the  heat  of  discussion,  with  gentlemen 
who  are  opposed  to  me  —  I  don't  doubt,  conscientiously,  op- 
posed— on  this  question." 

A  low  groan  of  protest  rose  from  One,  Two,  and  Three,  in 
return  for  the  little  compliment  which  Sir  Patrick  had  paid  to 
them.  "How  about  rowing  and  running  ending  in  the  Old 
Bailey  and  the  gallows  ?  You  said  that,  sir — you  know  you 
did !" 

The  two  choral  gentlemen  looked  at  each  other,  and  agreed 
with  the  prevalent  sentiment.  "  It  came  to  that,  I  think. 
Smith."     "  Yes,  Jones,  it  certainly  came  to  that." 

The  only  two  men  who  still  cared  nothing  about  it  were 
Geoffrey  and  the  surgeon.  There  sat  the  first,  stolidly  neutral 
— indifferent  alike  to  the  attack  and  the  defense.  There  stood 
the  second,  pursuing  his  investigation — with  the  growing  in- 
terest in  it  of  a  man  who  was  beginning  to  see  his  way  to  the 
end. 

"Hear  my  defense,  gentlemen,"  continued  Sir  Patrick,  as 
courteously  as  ever.  "You  belong,  remember,  to  a  nation 
which  especially  claims  to  practice  the  rules  of  fair  play.  I 
must  beg  to  remind  you  of  what  I  said  in  the  garden.  I  start- 
ed with  a  concession.  I  admitted  —  as  every  person  of  the 
smallest  sense  must  admit — that  a  man  will,  in  the  great  ma- 
jority of  cases,  be  all  the  fitter  for  mental  exercise  if  he  wisely 
combines  physical  exercise  along  with  it.  The  whole  question 
between  the  two  is  a  question  of  proportion  and  degree ;  and 
my  complaint  of  the  present  time  is  that  the  present  time 
doesn't  see  it.  Popular  opinion  in  England  seems  to  me  to  be 
not  only  getting  to  consider  the  cultivation  of  the  muscles  as 
of  equal  importance  with  the  cultivation  of  the  mind,  but  to 
be  actually  extending — in  practice,  if  not  in  theory — to  the 
absurd  and  dangerous  length  of  putting  bodily  training  in  the 
first  place  of  importance,  and  mental  training  in  the  second. 
To  take  a  case  in  point :  I  can  discover  no  enthusiasm  in  the 
nation  any  thing  like  so  genuine  and  any  thing  like  so  gen- 
eral as  the  enthusiasm  excited  by  your  University  boat-race. 
Again :  I  see  this  Athletic  Education  of  yours  made  a  matter 
of  public  celebration  in  schools  and  colleges ;  and  I  ask  any 
unprejudiced  witness  to  tell  me  which  excites  most  popular 
enthusiasm,  and  which  gets  the  most  prominent  place  in  the 


182  MAN   AND   WIPB. 

public  journals — the  exhibition,  indoors  (on  Prize-day),  of  what 
the  boys  can  do  with  their  minds  ?  or  the  exhibition,  out-of- 
doors  (on  Sports -day),  of  what  the  boys  can  do  with  their 
bodies  ?  You  know  perfectly  well  which  performance  excites 
the  loudest  cheers,  which  occupies  the  prominent  place  in  the 
newspapers,  and  which,  as  a  necessary  consequence,  confers  the 
highest  social  honors  on  the  hero  of  the  day." 

Another  murmur  from  One,  Two,  and  Three.  "  We  have 
nothing  to  say  to  that,  sir ;  have  it  all  your  own  way,  so  far." 

Another  ratification  of  agreement  with  the  prevalent  opinion 
between  Smith  and  Jones. 

"  Very  good,"  pursued  Sir  Patrick.  "  We  are  all  of  one 
mind  as  to  which  way  the  public  feeling  sets.  If  it  is  a  feeling 
to  be  respected  and  encouraged,  show  me  the  national  advan- 
tage which  has  resulted  from  it.  Where  is  the  influence  of 
this  modern  outburst  of  manly  enthusiasm  on  the  serious  con- 
cerns of  life?  and  how  has  it  improved  the  character  of  the 
people  at  large?  Are  we  any  of  us  individually  readier  than 
we  ever  were  to  sacrifice  our  own  little  private  interests  to 
the  public  good?  Are  we  dealing  with  the  serious  social 
questions  of  our  time  in  a  conspicuously  determined,  down- 
right, and  definite  way?  Are  we  becoming  a  visibly  and  in- 
disputably purer  people  in  our  code  of  commercial  morals?  Is 
there  a  healtliier  and  higher  tone  in  those  public  amusements 
which  faithfully  reflect  in  all  countries  the  public  taste  ?  Pro- 
duce me  affirmative  answers  to  these  questions,  which  rest  on 
solid  proof,  and  I'll  accept  the  present  mania  for  athletic  sports 
as  something  better  than  an  outbreak  of  our  insular  boastful- 
ness  and  our  insular  barbarity  in  a  new  form." 

"  Question  !  question  !"  in  a  general  cry,  from  One,  Two,  and 
Threc^^. 

'"  Question  !  question !"  in  meek  reverberation,  from  Smith 
and  Jones. 

"That  is  the  question,"  rejoined  Sir  Patrick,  "You  admit 
the  existence  of  the  public  feeling ;  and  I  ask,  what  good  does 
it  do  ?" 

"  What  harm  does  it  do  ?"  from  One,  Two,  and  Three. 

"  Hear !  hear  !"  from  Smith  and  Jones. 

"That's  a  fair  challenge,"  replied  Sir  Patrick.  "I  am  bound 
to  meet  you  on  that  new  ground.  I  won't  point,  gentlemen, 
by  way  of  answer,  to  the  coarseness  which  I  can  see  growing 
on  our  national  manners,  or  to  the  deterioration  which  appears 
to  me  to  be  spreading  more  and  more  widely  in  our  national 
tastes.  You  may  tell  me  with  perfect  truth  that  I  am  too  old 
a  man  to  be  a  fair  judge  of  manners  and  tastes  which  have  got 
beyond  my  standards.  We  will  try  the  issue,  as  it  now  stands 
between  us,  on  its  abstract  merits  only.     I  assert  that  a  state 


MAN    AND    WIFE.  183 

of  public  feeling  which  does  practically  place  physical  train- 
ing, in  its  estimation,  above  moral  and  mental  training,  is  a 
positively  bad  and  dangerous  state  of  feeling  in  this,  that  it 
encourages  the  inbred  reluctance  in  humanity  to  submit  to 
the  demands  which  moral  and  mental  cultivation  must  inevi- 
tably make  on  it.  Which  am  I,  as  a  boy,  naturally  most  ready 
to  do — to  try  how  high  I  can  jump  ?  or  to  try  how  much  I  can 
learn  ?  Which  training  comes  easiest  to  me  as  a  young  man  ? 
The  training  which  teaches  me  to  handle  an  oar  ?  or  the  train- 
ing which  teaches  me  to  return  good  for  evil,  and  to  love  my 
neighbor  as  myself?  Of  those  two  experiments,  of  those  two 
trainings,  which  ought  society  in  England  to  meet  with  the 
warmest  encouragement?  And  which  does  society  in  England 
practically  encourage,  as  a  matter  of  fact  ?" 

"What  did  you  say  yourself  just  now?"  from  One,  Two,  and 
Three. 

"  Remarkably  well  put !"  from  Smith  and  Jones. 

"  I  said,"  admitted  Sir  Patrick, "  that  a  man  will  go  all  the 
better  to  his  books  for  his  healthy  physical  exercise.  And  I 
say  that  again — provided  the  physical  exercise  be  restrained 
within  fit  limits.  But  when  public  feeling  enters  into  the 
question,  and  directly  exalts  the  bodily  exercises  above  the 
books — then  I  say  public  feeling  is  in  a  dangerous  extreme. 
The  bodily  exercises,  in  that  case,  will  be  uppermost  in  the 
youth's  thoughts,  will  have  the  strongest  hold  on  his  interest, 
will  take  the  lion's  share  of  his  time,  and  will,  by  those  means 
— barring  the  few  purely  exceptional  instances — slowly  and 
surely  end  in  leaving  him,  to  ail  good  moral  and  mental  pur- 
pose, certainly  an  uncultivated,  and,  possibly,  a  dangerous 
man." 

A  cry  from  the  camp  of  the  adversaries :  "  He's  got  to  it 
at  last !  A  man  who  leads  an  out-of-door  life,  and  uses  the 
strength  that  God  has  given  to  him,  is  a  dangerous  man.  Did 
any  body  ever  hear  the  like  of  that  ?" 

Cry  reverberated,  with  variations,  by  the  two  human  echpes : 
"  No  !     Nobody  ever  heard  the  like  of  that !" 

"  Clear  your  minds  of  cant,  gentlemen,"  answered  Sir  Pat- 
rick. "The  agricultural  laborer  leads  an  out-of-door  life,  and 
uses  the  strength  that  God  has  given  to  him.  The  sailor  in 
the  merchant  service  does  the  same.  Both  are  an  uncultiva- 
ted, a  shamefully  uncultivated,  class — and  see  the  result !  Look 
at  the  Map  of  Crime,  and  you  will  find  the  most  hideous  of- 
fenses in  the  calendar,  committed — not  in  the  towns,  where 
the  average  man  doesn't  lead  an  out-of-door  life,  doesn't,  as  a 
rule,  use  his  strength,  but  is,  as  a  rule,  comparatively  cultiva- 
ted— not  in  the  tow^ns,  but  in  the  agricultural  districts.  As  for 
the  English  sailor — except  when  the  Royal  Navy  catches  and 


184  MAN    AND    WIFE. 

cultivates  him — ask  Mr,  Brinkworth,  who  has  served  in  the 
merchant  navy,  wliat  sort  of  specimen  of  the  moral  influence 
of  out-of-door  life  and  muscular  cultivation  he  is." 

"  In  nine  cases  out  of  ten,"  said  Arnold,  *'  he  is  as  idle  and 
vicious  a  ruflian  as  walks  the  earth." 

Another  cry  from  the  Opposition:  "Are  we  agricultural  la- 
borers?    Are  we  sailors  ir  *he  merchant  service?" 

A  smart  reverberation  from  the  human  echoes :  "  Smith  ! 
am  I  a  laborer?"     "Jones  !  am  I  a  sailor?" 

"Pray  let  us  not  be  personal,  gentlemen,"  said  Sir  Patrick. 
"  I  am  speaking  generally ;  and  I  can  only  meet  extreme  ob- 
jections by  pushing  my  argument  to  extreme  limits.  The  la- 
borer and  the  sailor  have  served  my  purpose.  If  the  laborer 
and  the  sailor  offend  you,  by  all  means  let  them  walk  off  the 
stage  !  I  hold  to  the  position  which  I  advanced  just  now.  A 
man  may  be  well  born,  well  off,  well  dressed,  well  fed — but  if 
he  is  an  uncultivated  man,  he  is  (in  spite  of  all  those  advan- 
tages) a  man  with  special  capacities  for  evil  in  him,  on  that 
very  account.  Don't  mistake  me  !  I  am  far  from  saying  that 
the  present  rage  for  exclusively  muscular  accomplishments 
must  lead  inevitably  downward  to  the  lowest  deep  of  depravi- 
ty. Fortunately  for  society,  all  special  depravity  is  more  or 
less  certainly  the  result,  in  the  first  instance,  of  special  temp- 
tation. The  ordinary  mass  of  us,  thank  God,  pass  through  life 
without  being  exposed  to  other  than  ordinary  temptations. 
Thousands  of  the  young  gentlemen,  devoted  to  the  favorite 
pursuits  of  the  present  time,  will  get  through  existence  with 
no  worse  consequences  to  themselves  than  a  coarse  tone  of 
mind  and  manners,  and  a  lamentable  incapability  of  feeling 
any  of  those  higher  and  gentler  influences  which  sweeten  and 
purify  the  lives  of  more  cultivated  men.  But  take  the  other 
case  (which  may  occur  to  any  body),  the  case  of  a  special 
temptation  trying  a  modern  young  man  of  your  prosperous 
class  and  of  mine.  And  let  me  beg  Mr.  Delamayn  to  honor 
with  his  attention  what  I  have  now  to  say,  because  it  refers 
to  the  opinion  which  I  did  really  express — as  distinguished 
from  the  opinion  which  he  affects  to  agree  with,  and  which  I 
never  advanced." 

Geoffrey's  indifference  showed  no  signs  of  giving  way.  "  Go 
on  !"  he  said — and  still  sat  looking  straight  before  him,  with 
heavy  eyes,  which  noticed  nothing,  and  expressed  nothing. 

"Take  the  example  which  we  have  now  in  view,"  pursued 
Sir  Patrick — "  the  example  of  an  average  young  gentleman  of 
our  time, blest  with  every  advantage  that  physical  cultivation 
can  bestow  on  him.  Let  this  man  be  tried  by  a  temptation 
which  insidiously  calls  into  action,  in  his  own  interests,  the 
savage  instincts  latent  in  humanity — the  instincts  of  self-seek- 


MAN    AND    WIFE.  185 

ing  and  cruelty  which  are  at  the  bottom  of  all  crime.  Let  \ 
this  man  be  placed  toward  some  other  person,  guiltless  of  in-  1 
juring  him,  in  a  position  which  demands  one  of  two  sacrifices  \ 
— the  sacrifice  of  the  other  person,  or  the  sacrifice  of  his  own  ■ 
interests  and  his  own  desires.  His  neighbor's  happiness,  or  his 
neighbor's  life,  stands,  let  us  say,  between  him  and  the  attain- 
ment of  something  that  he  wants.  He  can  wreck  the  happi- 
ness, or  strike  down  the  life,  without,  to  his  knowledge,  any 
fear  of  suffering  for  it  himself  "What  is  to  prevent  him,  being 
the  man  he  is,  from  going  straight  to  his  end  on  those  condi- 
tions ?  Will  the  skill  in  rowing,  the  swiftness  in  running,  the 
admirable  capacity  and  endurance  in  other  physical  exercises, 
which  he  has  attained,  by  a  strenuous  cultiv  ation  in  this  kind 
that  has  excluded  any  similarly  strenuous  cultivation  in  oth- 
er kinds — will  these  physical  attainments  help  him  to  win  a 
purely  moral  victory  over  his  own  selfishness  and  his  own 
cruelty?  They  won't  even  help  him  to  see  that  it  is  selfish- 
ness, and  that  it  is  cruelty.  The  essential  principle  of  his 
rowing  and  racing  (a  harmless  principle  enough,  if  you  can 
be  sure  of  applying  it  to  rowing  and  racing  only)  has  taught 
him  to  take  every  advantage  of  another  man  that  his  superior 
strength  and  superior  cunning  can  suggest.  There  has  been 
nothing  in  his  training  to  soften  the  barbarous  hardness  in  his 
heart,  and  to  enlighten  the  barbarous  darkness  in  his  mind. 
Temptation  finds  this  man  defenseless,  when  temptation  passes 
his  way,  I  don't  care  w^ho  he  is,  or  how  high  he  stands  acci- 
dentally in  the  social  scale  —  he  is,  to  all  moral  intents  andj 
purposes,  an  Animal,  and  nothing  moi*e.  If  my  happiness 
stands  in  his  way — and  if  he  can  do  it  with  impunity  to  him-j 
self — he  will  trample  down  my  happiness.  If  my  life  happens 
to  be  the  next  obstacle  he  encounters — and  if  he  can  do  it 
with  impunity  to  himself — he  will  trample  down  my  life. 
Not,  Mr.  Delamayn,  in  the  character  of  a  victim  to  irresistible  "\ 
fatality,  or  to  blind  chance ;  but  in  the  character  of  a  man 
who  has  sown  the  seed,  and  reaps  the  harvest.  That,  sir,  is 
the  case  which  I  put  as  an  extreme  case  only,  when  this  dis- 
cussion began.  As  an  extreme  case  only — but  as  a  perfectly 
possible  case,  at  the  same  time — I  restate  it  now." 

Before  the  advocates  of  the  other  side  of  the  question  could 
open  their  lips  to  reply,  Geoffrey  suddenly  flung  off  his  indif- 
ference, and  started  to  his  feet. 

"Stop!"  he  cried,  threatening  the  others,  in  his  fierce  impa- 
tience to  answer  for  himself,  with  his  clenched  fist. 

There  was  a  general  silence. 

Geoffrey  turned  and  looked  at  Sir  Patrick,  as  if  Sir  Patrick 
had  personally  insulted  him. 

"  Who  is  this  anonymous  man,  who  finds  his  way  to  his  own 


186  MAN   AND   WIFE. 

ends,  and  pities  nobody  and  sticks  at  nothing?"  he  asked. 
"  Give  him  a  name  !" 

"  I  am  quoting  an  example,"  said  Sir  Patrick,  "  I  am  not 
attacking  a  man." 

"  What  right  have  you,"  cried  Geoffrey — utterly  forgetful, 
in  the  strange  exasperation  that  had  seized  on  him,  of  the  in- 
terest that  he  had  in  controlling  himself  before  Sir  Patrick — 
"  what  right  have  you  to  pick  out  an  example  of  a  rowing-man 
who  is  an  infernal  scoundrel — when  it's  quite  as  likely  that  a 
rowing-man  may  be  a  good  fellow :  ay !  and  a  better  fellow, 
if  you  come  to  that,  than  ever  stood  in  your  shoes !" 

"  If  the  one  case  is  quite  as  likely  to  occur  as  the  other 
(which  I  readily  admit),"  answered  Sir  Patrick,  "  I  have  surely 
a  right  to  choose  which  case  I  please  for  illustration.  (Wait, 
Mr.  Delamayn  !  These  are  the  last  words  I  have  to  say,  and 
I  mean  to  say  them.)  I  have  taken  the  example — not  of  a 
specially  depraved  man,  as  you  erroneously  suppose — but  of 
an  average  man,  with  his  average  share  of  the  mean,  cruel,  and 
dangerous  qualities  which  are  part  and  parcel  of  unreformed 
human  nature — as  your  religion  tells  you,  and  as  you  may  see 
for  yourself,  if  you  choose  to  look  at  your  untaught  fellow- 
creatures  anywhere.  I  suppose  that  man  to  be  tried  by  a 
temptation  to  wickedness,  out  of  the  common ;  and  I  show,  to 
the  best  of  my  ability,  how  completely  the  moral  and  mental 
neglect  of  himself,  which  the  present  material  tone  of  public 
feeling  in  England  has  tacitly  encouraged,  leaves  him  at  the 
mercy  of  all  the  worst  instincts  in  his  nature ;  and  how  surely, 
under  those  conditions,  he  must  go  down  (gentleman  as  he  is) 
step  by  step — as  the  lowest  vagabond  in  the  streets  goes  down 
under  his  special  temptation — from  the  beginning  in  ignorance 
to  the  end  in  crime.  If  you  deny  my  right  to  take  such  an 
example  as  that,  in  illustration  of  the  views  I  advocate,  you 
must  either  deny  that  a  special  temptation  to  wickedness  can 
assail  a  man  in  the  position  of  a  gentleman ;  or  you  must  as- 
sert that  gentlemen  who  are  naturally  superior  to  all  tempta- 
tion are  the  only  gentlemen  who  devote  themselves  to  athletic 
pursuits.  There  is  my  defense.  In  stating  my  case,  I  have 
spoken  out  of  my  own  sincere  respect  for  the  interests  of  vir- 
tue and  of  learning :  out  of  my  own  sincere  admiration  for 
those  young  men  among  us  who  are  resisting  the  contagion 
of  barbarism  about  them.  In  their  future  is  the  future  hope 
of  England.     I  have  done." 

Angrily  ready  with  a  violent  personal  reply,  Geoffrey  found 
himself  chocked,  in  his  turn,  by  another  person  with  something 
to  say,  and  with  a  resolution  to  say  it  at  that  particular  moment. 

For  some  little  time  past  the  surgeon  had  discontinued  his 


MAN   AND   WIFR.  187 

steady  investigation  of  GeoiFrey's  face,  and  had  given  all  his 
attention  to  the  discussion,  with  the  air  of  a  man  whose  self- 
imposed  task  had  come  to  an  end.  As  the  last  sentence  fell 
from  the  last  speaker's  lips,  he  interposed  so  quickly  and  so 
skillfully  between  Geoftrey  and  Sir  Patrick,  that  Geoffrey  him- 
self was  taken  by  surprise. 

"There  is  something  still  wanting  to  make  Sir  Patrick's 
statement  of  the  case  complete,"  he  said.  "  I  think  I  can  sup- 
ply it,  from  the  result  of  my  own  professional  experience.  Be- 
fore I  say  what  I  have  to  say,  Mr.  Delamayn  will  perhaps  excuse 
me  if  I  venture  on  giving  him  a  caution  to  control  himself." 

"  Are  you  going  to  make  a  dead  set  at  me,  too  ?"  inquired 
Geoffrey. 

"I  am  recommending  you  to  keep  your  temper  —  nothing 
more.  There  are  plenty  of  men  who  can  fly  into  a  passion 
without  doing  themselves  any  particular  harm.  You  are  not 
one  of  them." 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?" 

"  I  don't  think  the  state  of  your  health,  Mr.  Delamayn,  is 
quite  so  satisfactory  as  you  may  be  disposed  to  consider  it 
yourself." 

Geoffrey  turned  to  his  admirers  and  adherents  with  a  roar 
of  derisive  laughter.  The  admirers  and  adherents  all  echoed 
him  together.  Arnold  and  Blanche  smiled  at  each  other. 
Even  Sir  Patrick  looked  as  if  he  could  hardly  credit  the  evi- 
dence of  his  own  ears.  There  stood  the  modern  Hercules,  self- 
vindicated  as  a  Hercules,  before  all  eyes  that  looked  at  him. 
And  there,  opposite,  stood  a  man  whom  he  could  have  killed 
with  one  blow  of  his  fist,  telling  him,  in  serious  earnest,  that  he 
was  not  in  perfect  health  ! 

"  You  are  a  rare  fellow  !"  said  Geoffrey,  half  in  jest  and  half 
in  anger.     "What's  the  matter  with  me?" 

"  I  have  undertaken  to  give  you  what  I  believe  to  be  a  nec- 
essary caution,"  answered  the  surgeon.  "  I  have  7iot  under- 
taken to  tell  you  what  I  think  is  the  matter  with  you.  That 
may  be  a  question  for  consideration  some  little  time  hence. 
In  the  mean  while,  I  should  like  to  put  my  impression  about 
you  to  the  test.  Have  you  any  objection  to  answer  a  question 
on  a  matter  of  no  particular  importance  relating  to  yourself?" 

*'  Let's  hear  the  question  first." 

*'  I  have  noticed  something  in  your  behavior  while  Sir  Pat- 
rick was  speaking.  You  are  as  much  interested  in  opposing 
his  views  as  any  of  those  gentlemen  about  you.  I  don't  un- 
derstand your  sitting  in  silence,  and  leaving  it  entirely  to  the 
others  to  put  the  case  on  your  side — until  Sir  Patrick  said 
something  which  happened  to  irritate  you.  Had  you,  all  the 
time  before  that,  no  answer  ready  in  your  own  mind  ?" 


188  MAN    AJSTD    WIFE. 

"  I  had  as  good  answers  in  my  mind  as  any  that  have  been 
made  here  to-day." 

"  And  yet  you  didn't  give  them  ?" 

"  No ;  I  didn't  give  them." 

"Perhaps  you  felt — though  you  knew  your  objections  to  be 
good  ones — that  it  was  hardly  worth  while  to  take  the  trouble 
of  putting  them  into  words?  In  short,  you  let  your  friends 
answer  for  you,  rather  than  make  the  effort  of  answering  for 
yourself?" 

Geoffrey  looked  at  his  medical  adviser  with  a  sudden  curios- 
ity and  a  sudden  distrust, 

"  I  say,"  he  asked,  "  how  do  you  come  to  know  what's  going 
on  in  my  mind — without  my  telling  you  of  it?" 

"  It  is  my  business  to  find  out  what  is  going  on  in  people's 
bodies — and  to  do  that  it  is  sometimes  necessary  for  me  to  find 
out  (if  I  can)  what  is  going  on  in  their  minds.  If  I  have  right- 
ly interpreted  what  was  going  on  in  your  mind,  there  is  no  need 
for  me  to  press  my  question.     You  have  answered  it  already." 

He  turned  to  Sir  Patrick  next. 

"  There  is  a  side  to  this  subject,"  he  said,  "  which  you  have 
not  touched  on  yet.  There  is  a  Physical  objection  to  the  pres' 
ent  rage  for  muscular  exercises  of  all  sorts,  which  is  quite  as 
strong,  in  its  way,  as  the  Moral  objection.  You  have  stated 
the  consequences  as  they  may  affect  the  mind,  I  can  state  the 
consequences  as  they  do  affect  the  body." 

"  From  your  own  experience  ?" 

"  From  my  own  experience.  I  can  tell  you,  as  a  medical 
man,  that  a  proportion,  and  not  by  any  means  a  small  one,  of 
the  young  men  who  are  now  putting  themselves  to  violent 
athletic  tests  of  their  strength  and  endurance,  are  taking  that 
course  to  the  serious  and  permanent  injury  of  their  own  health. 
The  public  who  attend  rowing-matches,  foot-races,  and  other 
exhibitions  of  that  sort,  see  nothing  but  the  successful  results 
of  muscular  training.  P^'athers  and  mothers  at  home  see  the 
failures.  There  are  households  in  England — miserable  house- 
holds, to  be  counted,  Sir  Patrick,  by  more  than  ones  and  twos 
— in  wliich  there  are  young  men  who  have  to  thank  the  strain 
laid  on  their  constitutions  by  the  popular  physical  displays  of 
the  present  time,  for  being  broken  men,  and  invalided  men,  for 
the  rest  of  their  lives." 

"  Do  you  hear  that?"  said  Sir  Patrick,  looking  at  Geoffrey, 

Geoffrey  carelessly  nodded  his  head.  His  irritation  had  had 
time  to  subside:  the  stolid  indifference  had  got  possession  of 
him  again.  He  had  resumed  his  chair — he  sat,  with  outstretch- 
ed legs,  staring  stupidly  at  the  pattern  on  the  carpet.  "  What 
does  it  matter  to  Me?"  was  the  sentiment  expressed  all  over 
him,  from  head  to  foot. 


MAX    AND    TVIFE.  189 

The  surgeon  went  on. 

"I  can  SCO  no  remedy  for  this  sad  state  of  things,"  he  said, 
"  as  long  as  the  public  feeling  remains  what  the  public  feeling 
is  now.  A  line  healthy-looking  young  man,  with  a  superb 
muscular  development,  longs  (naturally  enough)  to  distinguish 
himself  like  others.  The  training  authorities  at  his  college,  or 
elsewhere,  take  him  in  hand  (naturally  enough  again)  on  the 
strength  of  outward  appearances.  And  whether  they  have 
been  right  or  wrong  in  choosing  him  is  more  than  they  can 
say,  until  the  experiment  has  been  tried,  and  the  mischief  has 
been,  in  many  cases,  irretrievably  done.  How  many  of  them 
are  aware  of  the  important  physiological  truth,  that  the  mus- 
cular power  of  a  man  is  no  fair  guarantee  of  his  vital  power? 
How  many  of  them  know  that  we  all  have  (as  a  great  French 
writer  puts  it)  two  lives  in  us — the  surface  life  of  the  muscles, 
and  the  inner  life  of  the  heart,  lungs,  and  brain  ?  Even  if  they 
did  know  this — even  with  medical  men  to  help  them — it  would 
be  in  the  last  degree  doubtful,  in  most  cases,  whether  any  pre- 
vious examination  would  result  in  any  reliable  discovery  of  the 
vital  fitness  of  the  man  to  undergo  the  stress  of  muscular  exer- 
tion laid  on  him.  Apply  to  any  of  my  brethren  ;  and  they  will 
tell  you,  as  the  result  of  their  own  professional  observation,  that 
I  am  in  no  sense  overstating  this  serious  evil,  or  exaggerating 
the  deplorable  and  dangerous  consequences  to  which  it  leads. 
I  have  a  patient,  at  this  moment,  who  is  a  young  man  of  twen- 
ty, and  who  possesses  one  of  the  finest  muscular  developments 
I  ever  saw  in  my  life.  If  that  young  man  had  consulted  me  be- 
fore he  followed  the  example  of  the  other  young  men  about  him, 
I  can  not  honestly  say  that  T  could  have  foreseen  the  results. 
As  things  are,  after  going  through  a  certain  amount  of  muscu- 
lar training,  after  performing  a  certain  number  of  muscular 
feats,  he  suddenly  fainted  one  day,  to  the  astonishment  of  his 
family  and  friends.  I  was  called  in,  and  I  have  watched  the 
case  since.  He  will  probably  live,  but  he  will  never  recover, 
I  am  obliged  to  take  precautions  with  this  youth  of  twenty 
which  I  should  take  with  an  old  man  of  eighty.  He  is  big 
enough  and  muscular  enough  to  sit  to  a  painter  as  a  model  for 
Samson — and  only  last  week  I  saw  him  swoon  away  like  a 
young  girl,  in  his  mother's  arms." 

"  Name !"  cried  Geoffrey's  admirers,  still  fighting  the  battle 
on  their  side,  in  the  absence  of  any  encouragement  from  Geof- 
frey himself. 

"  I  am  not  in  the  habit  of  mentioning  my  patients'  names," 
replied  the  surgeon.  "  But  if  you  insist  on  my  producing  an 
example  of  a  man  broken  by  athletic  exercises,  I  can  do  it." 

"Doit!     Who  is  he?" 

"You  all  know  him  perfectly  well." 


190  MAN    AND    WIFE. 

"  Is  he  in  the  doctor's  hands?" 

"  Not  yet." 

"  Where  is  he  ?" 

"  There !" 

In  a  pause  of  breathless  silence — with  the  eyes  of  every  per- 
son in  the  room  eagerly  fastened  on  him — the  surgeon  lifted 
his  hand  and  pointed  to  Geoffrey  Delamayn. 


CHAPTER  THE  TWENTIETH. 

TOUCHING    IT. 

As  soon  as  the  general  stupefaction  was  allayed,  the  general 
incredulity  asserted  itself  as  a  matter  of  course. 

The  man  who  first  declared  that  "seeing"  was  "believing" 
laid  his  finger  (whether  he  knew  it  himself  or  not)  on  one  of 
the  fundamental  follies  of  humanity.  The  easiest  of  all  evi- 
dence to  receive  is  the  evidence  that  requires  no  other  judg- 
ment to  decide  on  it  than  the  judgment  of  the  eye — and  it 
will  be,  on  that  account,  the  evidence  which  humanity  is  most 
ready  to  credit,  as  long  as  humanity  lasts.  The  eyes  of  every 
body  looked  at  Geoffrey;  and  the  judgment  of  every  body  de- 
cided, on  the  evidence  there  visible,  that  the  surgeon  must  be 
wrong.  Lady  Lundie  herself  (disturbed  over  her  dinner  invi- 
tations) led  the  general  protest.  "Mr.  Delamayn  in  broken 
health  !"  she  exclaimed,  appealing  to  the  better  sense  of  her 
eminent  medical  guest.  "  Really,  now,  you  can't  expect  us 
to  believe  that !" 

Stung  into  action  for  the  second  time  by  the  startling  asser- 
tion of  which  he  had  been  made  the  subject,  Geoffrey  rose,  and 
looked  the  surgeon,  steadily  and  insolently,  straight  in  the  face. 

"  Do  you  mean  what  you  say  ?"  he  asked, 

"Yes," 

"  You  point  me  out  before  all  these  people — " 

"  One  moment,  Mr.  Delamayn,  I  admit  that  I  may  have 
been  wrong  in  directing  the  general  attention  to  you.  You 
have  a  right  to  complain  of  my  having  answered  too  publicly 
the  public  challenge  offered  to  me  by  your  friends,  I  apolo- 
gize for  having  done  that.  But  I  don't  retract  a  single  word 
of  what  I  have  said  on  the  subject  of  your  health," 

"  You  stick  to  it  that  I'm  a  broken-down  man  ?" 

« I  do." 

*'I  wish  you  were  twenty  years  younger,  sir?" 

"Why?" 

"  I'd  ask  you  to  step  out  on  the  lawn  there,  and  I'd  show 
you  whether  I'm  a  broken-down  man  or  not," 


M4N    AND    WIFE.  191 

Lady  Lundie  looked  at  her  brother-in-law.  Sir  Patrick  in- 
stantly interfered. 

"  Mr.  Delamayn,"  he  said,  "  you  were  invited  here  in  the 
cliaracter  of  a  gentleman,  and  you  are  a  guest  in  a  lady's 
iii>use." 

"  No  !  no  !"  said  the  surgeon,  good-humoredly.  "  Mr.  Dela- 
nuiyn  is  using  a  strong  argument,  Sir  Patrick — and  that  is  all. 
If  I  loere  twenty  years  younger,"  he  went  on,  addressing  him- 
self to  Geoifrey,  "  and  if  I  did  step  out  on  the  lawn  with  you, 
the  result  wouldn't  aflect  the  question  between  us  in  the  least. 
I  don't  say  that  the  violent  bodily  exercises  in  which  you  are 
famous  have  damaged  your  muscular  power.  I  assert  that 
they  have  damaged  your  vital  power.  In  what  particular 
way  they  have  affected  it  I  don't  consider  myself  bound  to 
tell  you.  I  simply  give  you  a  warning,  as  a  matter  of  com- 
mon humanity.  You  will  do  well  to  be  content  with  the  suc- 
cess you  have  already  achieved  in  the  field  of  athletic  pursuits, 
and  to  alter  your  mode  of  life  for  the  future.  Accept  my  ex- 
cuses, once  more,  for  having  said  this  publicly  instead  of  pri- 
vately— and  don't  foi'get  my  warning." 

He  turned  to  move  away  to  another  part  of  the  room.  Geof- 
frey fairly  forced  him  to  return  to  the  subject. 

"  Wait  a  bit,"  he  said.  "  You  have  had  your  innings.  My 
turn  now.  I  can't  give  it  words  as  you  do  ;  but  I  can  come  to 
the  point.  And,  by  the  Lord,  I'll  fix  you  to  it !  In  ten  days 
or  a  fortnight  from  this  I'm  going  into  training  for  the  Foot- 
race at  Fulhara.     Do  you  say  I  shall  break  down  ?" 

"  You  will  probably  get  through  your  training." 

"Shall  I  get  through  the  race?" 

"  You  may  j^ossibly  get  through  the  race.     But  if  you  do — " 

"  If  I  do  ?" 

"  You  will  never  run  another." 

"  And  never  row  in  another  match  ?" 

"  Never." 

"  I  have  been  asked  to  row  in  the  Race,  next  spring ;  and  I 
liave  said  I  will.  Do  you  tell  me,  in  so  many  words,  that  I 
feha'n't  be  able  to  do  it  ?" 

"  Yes — in  so  many  words." 

"Positively?" 

"  Positively." 

"  Back  your  opinion !"  cried  Geoffrey,  tearing  his  betting- 
book  out  of  his  pocket.  "  I  lay  you  an  even  hundred  I'm  in  fit 
condition  to  row  in  the  University  Match  next  spring." 

"  I  don't  bet,  Mr.  Delamayn." 

With  that  final  reply  the  surgeon  walked  away  to  the  other 
end  of  the  library.  Lady  Lundie  (taking  Blanche  in  custcdy) 
withdrew,  at  the  same  time,  to  return  to  the  serious  business 


192  MAN   AND    WIFE. 

of  her  invitations  for  the  dinner.  Geoffrey  turned  defiantly, 
book  in  hand,  to  his  college  friends  about  him.  The  British 
blood  was  up;  and  the  British  resolution  to  bet,  which  suc- 
cessfully defies  common  decency  and  common  law  from  one 
end  of  the  country  to  the  other,  was  not  to  be  trifled  with. 

"  Come  on  !"  cried  Geoffrey.    "  Back  the  doctor,  one  of  you  !" 

Sir  Patrick  rose  in  undisguised  disgust,  and  followed  the 
surgeon.  One,  Two,  and  Three,  invited  to  business  by  their 
illustrious  friend,  shook  their  thick  heads  at  him  knowingly, 
and  answered  with  one  accord,  in  one  eloquent  word — "  Gam- 
mon !" 

"  One  of  you  back  him !"  persisted  Geoffrey,  appealing  to  the 
two  choral  gentlemen  in  the  background,  with  his  temper  fast 
rising  to  fever  heat.  The  two  choral  gentlemen  compared 
notes,  as  usual.  "  We  weren't  born  yesterday,  Smith  ?"  "  Not 
if  we  know  it,  Jones." 

"  Smith  !"  said  Geoffrey,  with  a  sudden  assumption  of  polite- 
ness ominous  of  something  unpleasant  to  come. 

Smith  said  "  Yes  ?" — with  a  smile. 

«  Jones  !" 

Jones  said  "  Yes  ?" — with  a  reflection  of  Smith. 

"  You're  a  couple  of  infernal  cads — and  you  haven't  got  a 
hundred  pound  between  you  !" 

"  Come  !  come  !"  said  Arnold,  interfering  for  the  first  time. 
"  This  is  shameful,  Geoffrey  !" 

"  Why  the  " — (never  mind  what !) — "  won't  they  any  of  them 
take  the  bet  ?" 

"  If  you  must  be  a  fool,"  returned  Arnold,  a  little  irritably 
on  his  side,  "  and  if  nothing  else  will  keep  you  quiet,  IHl  take 
the  bet." 

"An  even  hundred  on  the  doctor  !"  cried  Geoffrey.  "  Done 
with  you  !" 

His  highest  aspirations  were  satisfied ;  his  temper  was  in 
perfect  order  again.  He  entered  the  bet  in  his  book ;  and 
made  his  excuses  to  Smith  and  Jones  in  the  heartiest  way. 
"  No  offense,  old  chaps  !  Shake  hands  !"  The  two  choral  gen- 
tlemen were  enchanted  with  him.  "  The  English  aristocracy 
— eh,  Smith  ?"    "  Blood  and  breeding — eh,  Jones  !" 

As  soon  as  he  had  spoken,  Arnold's  conscience  reproached 
him  :  not  for  betting  (who  is  ashamed  of  that  form  of  gambling 
in  England  ?),  but  for  "backing  the  doctor."  With  the  best 
intention  toward  his  friend,  he  was  speculating  on  the  failure 
of  his  friend's  health.  He  anxiously  assured  Geoffrey  that  no 
man  in  the  room  could  be  more  heartily  persuaded  that  the 
Burgeon  was  wrong  than  himself  "  I  don't  cry  off  from  the 
bet,"  he  said.  "  But,  ray  dear  fellow,  pray  understand  that  I 
only  take  it  to  please  you," 


MAN    AND    WIPK,  19ft 

"  Bother  all  that !"  answered  Geoffrey,  with  the  steady  eye 
to  business,  which  was  one  of  the  choicest  virtues  of  his  charac- 
ter. "A  bet's  a  bet — and  hang  your  sentiment !"  He  drew 
Arnold  by  the  arm  out  of  ear-shot  of  the  others.  "  I  say  !"  he 
asked,  anxiously.  "  Do  you  think  I've  set  the  old  fogy's  back 
up?" 

"  Do  you  mean  Sir  Patrick  ?" 

Geoffrey  nodded,  and  went  on. 

"  I  haven't  put  that  little  matter  to  him  yet — about  marry- 
ing in  Scotland,  you  know.  Suppose  he  cuts  up  rough  with 
me  if  I  try  him  now?"  His  eye  wandered  cunningly,  as  he 
put  the  question,  to  the  farther  end  of  the  room.  The  surgeon 
was  looking  over  a  port-folio  of  prints.  The  ladies  were  still 
at  work  on  their  notes  of  invitation.  Sir  Patrick  was  alone 
at  the  book-shelves,  immersed  in  a  volume  which  he  had  just 
taken  down. 

"  Make  an  apology,"  suggested  Arnold.  "  Sir  Patrick  may 
be  a  little  irritable  and  bitter ;  but  he's  a  just  man  and  a  kind 
man.  Say  you  were  not  guilty  of  any  intentional  disrespect 
toward  him — and  you  will  say  enough." 

"All  right !" 

Sir  Patrick,  deep  in  an  old  Venetian  edition  of  The  Decam- 
eron, found  himself  suddenly  recalled  from  mediaeval  Italy  to 
modern  England,  by  no  less  a  person  than  Geoffrey  Delamayn. 

"  What  do  you  want  ?"  he  asked,  coldly. 

"  I  want  to  make  an  apology,"  said  Geoffrey.  "  Let  by-gones 
be  by-gones — and  that  sort  of  thing.  I  wasn't  guilty  of  any 
intentional  disrespect  toward  you.  Forgive  and  forget.  Not 
half  a  bad  motto,  sir — eh  ?" 

It  was  clumsily  expressed — but  still  it  was  an  apology. 
Not  even  Geoffrey  could  appeal  to  Sir  Patrick's  courtesy  and 
Sir  Patrick's  consideration  in  vain. 

"  Not  a  word  more,  Mr.  Delamayn !"  said  the  polite  old 
man.  "Accept  my  excuses  for  any  thing  which  I  may  have 
said  too  sharply,  on  my  side ;  and  let  us  by  all  means  forget 
the  rest." 

Having  met  the  advance  made  to  him,  in  those  terms,  he 
paused,  expecting  Geoffrey  to  leave  him  free  to  return  to  the 
Decameron.  To  his  unutterable  astonishment,  Geoffrey  sud- 
denly stooped  over  him,  and  whispered  in  his  ear,  "I  want  a 
word  in  private  with  you." 

Sir  Patrick  started  back,  as  if  Geoffrey  had  tried  to  bite  him. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  Mr.  Delamayn — what  did  you  say  ?" 

"  Could  you  give  me  a  word  in  private  ?" 

Sir  Patrick  put  back  the  Decameron,  and  bowed  in  freezing 
silence.  The  confidence  of  the  Honorable  Geoffrey  Delamayn 
was  the  last  confidence  in  the  world  into  which  he  desired  to 


196  MAN    AND   WIFE. 

be  drawn.  "  This  is  the  seci'et  of  the  apology  !"  he  thought. 
"  What  can  he  possibly  want  with  Me  ?" 

"  It's  about  a  friend  of  mine,"  pursued  Geoffrey,  leading  the 
way  toward  one  of  the  windows.  "  He's  in  a  scrape,  my  friend 
is.  And  I  want  to  ask  your  advice.  It's  strictly  private,  you 
know."  There  he  came  to  a  full  stop — and  looked  to  see  what 
impression  he  had  produced,  so  far. 

Sir  Patrick  declined,  either  by  word  or  gesture,  to  exhibit 
the  slightest  anxiety  to  hear  a  word  more. 

"  Would  you  mind  taking  a  turn  in  the  garden  ?"  asked 
Geoffrey. 

Sir  Patrick  pointed  to  his  lame  foot.  "  I  have  had  my  al- 
lowance of  walking  this  morning,"  he  said.  "Let  my  infirmity 
excuse  me." 

Geoffrey  looked  about  him  for  a  substitute  for  the  garden, 
and  led  the  way  back  again  toward  one  of  the  convenient  cur- 
tained recesses  opening  out  of  the  inner  wall  of  the  library. 
"  We  shall  be  private  enough  here,"  he  said. 

Sir  Patrick  made  a  final  effort  to  escape  the  proposed  confer- 
ence— an  undisguised  effort,  this  time. 

"  Pray  forgive  me,  Mr.  Delamayn.  Are  you  quite  sure  that 
you  apply  to  the  right  person  in  applying  to  vief'' 

"  You're  a  Scotch  lawyer,  ain't  you  ?" 

"  Certainly." 

"And  you  understand  about  Scotch  marriages — eh?" 

Sir  Patrick's  manner  suddenly  altered, 

" Is  that  the  subject  you  wish  to  consult  me  on?"  he  asked. 

"  It's  not  me.     It's  my  friend." 

"  Your  friend,  then  ?" 

"Yes.  It's  a  scrape  with  a  woman.  Here,  in  Scotland. 
My  friend  don't  know  whether  he  is  married  to  her  or  not." 

"  I  am  at  your  service,  Mr.  Delamayn." 

To  Geoffrey's  relief — by  no  means  unmixed  with  surprise — 
Sir  Patrick  not  only  showed  no  further  reluctance  to  be  con- 
sulted by  him,  but  actually  advanced  to  meet  his  wishes,  by 
leading  the  way  to  the  recess  that  was  nearest  to  them.  The 
quick  brain  of  the  old  lawyer  had  put  Geoffrey's  application  to 
him  for  assistance,  and  Blanche's  application  to  him  for  assist- 
ance together :  and  had  built  its  own  theory  on  the  basis  thus 
obtained.  "Do  I  see  a  connection  between  the  present  posi- 
tion of  Blanche's  governess  and  the  present  position  of  Mr. 
Delamayn's  friend  ?"  thought  Sir  Patrick.  "  Stranger  extremes 
than  that  have  met  me  in  my  experience.  Something  may 
come  out  of  this." 

The  two  strangely-assorted  companions  seated  themselves, 
one  on  each  side  of  a  little  table  in  the  recess.  Arnold  and 
the  other  guests  had  idled  out  again  on  to  the  lawn.     The  sur- 


MAN    AND    WIFE.  197 

^»on  with  his  prints,  and  the  ladies  with  their  invitations,  were 
earely  absorbed  in  a  distant  part  of  the  library.  The  confer- 
ence between  the  two  men,  so  trifling  in  appearance,  so  terrible 
in  its  destined  influence,  not  over  Anne's  future  only,  but  over 
the  future  of  Arnold  and  Blanche,  was,  to  all  practical  pur- 
poses, a  conference  with  closed  doors. 

"  Now,"  said  Sir  Patrick,  "  what  is  the  question  ?" 

"  The  question,"  said  Geoffrey,  "  is  whether  my  friend  is 
mari'ied  to  her  or  not  ?" 

"  Did  he  mean  to  marry  her  ?" 

"No." 

"  He  being  a  single  man,  and  she  being  a  single  woman,  at 
the  time?    And  both  in  Scotland  ?" 

"  Yes." 

"Very  well.     Now  tell  me  the  circumstances." 

Geoffrey  hesitated.  The  art  of  stating  circumstances  implies 
the  cultivation  of  a  very  rare  gift — the  gift  of  arranging  ideas- 
No  one  was  better  acquainted  with  this  truth  than  Sir  Patrick. 
He  was  purposely  puzzling  Geoffrey  at  starting,  under  the  firm 
conviction  that  his  client  had  something  to  conceal  from  him. 
The  one  process  that  could  be  depended  on  for  extracting  the 
truth,  under  those  circumstances,  was  the  process  of  interroga- 
tion. If  Geoffrey  was  submitted  to  it,  at  the  outset,  his  cun- 
ning might  take  the  alarm.  Sir  Patrick's  object  was  to  make 
the  man  himself  invite  interrogation.  Geoffrey  invited  it 
forthwith,  by  attempting  to  state  the  circumstances,  and  by 
involving  them  in  the  usual  confusion.  Sir  Patrick  waited 
until  he  had  thoroughly  lost  the  thread  of  his  narrative — and 
then  played  for  the  winning  trick. 

"  Would  it  be  easier  to  you  if  I  asked  a  few  questions  ?"  he 
inquired,  innocently. 

"  Much  easier." 

"  I  am  quite  at  your  service.  Suppose  we  clear  the  ground 
to  begin  with  ?     Are  you  at  liberty  to  mention  names  ?" 

"  No." 

"Places?" 

"  No." 

"Dates?" 

"Do  you  want  me  to  be  particular?" 

"  Be  as  particular  as  you  can." 

"  Will  it  do,  if  I  say  the  present  year  ?" 

"  Yes.  Were  your  friend  and  the  lady — at  some  time  in  the 
present  year — traveling  together  in  Scotland  ?" 

"  No." 

"  Living  together  in  Scotland  ?" 

"No." 

"  What  ^oere  they  doing  together  in  Scotland  ?" 


/98  MAN    AND    WIFE. 

"  Well — they  were  meeting  each  other  at  an  inn." 

"  Oh  ?  They  were  meeting  each  other  at  an  inn.  Which 
was  first  at  the  rendezvous  ?" 

"  The  woman  was  first.  Stop  a  bit !  We  are  getting  to  it 
now."  He  produced  from  his  pocket  the  written  memorandum 
of  Arnold's  proceedings  at  Craig  Fernie,  which  he  had  taken 
down  from  Arnold's  own  lips.  "  I've  got  a  bit  of  note  here," 
he  went  on,     "Perhaps  you'd  like  to  have  a  look  at  it?" 

Sir  Patrick  took  the  note — read  it  rapidly  through  to  himself 
— then  re-read  it,  sentence  by  sentence,  to  Geofi"rey ;  using  it 
as  a  text  to  speak  from,  in  making  further  inquiries. 

" '  He  asked  for  her  by  the  name  of  his  wife,  at  the  door,' " 
read  Sir  Patrick.  "  Meaning,  I  presume,  the  door  of  the  inn  ? 
Had  the  lady  previously  given  herself  out  as  a  married  woman 
to  the  people  of  the  inn  ?" 

"Yes." 

"How  long  had  she  been  at  the  inn  before  the  gentleman 
joined  her  ?" 

"  Only  an  hour  or  so." 

"  Did  she  give  a  name  ?" 

"  I  can't  be  quite  sure — I  should  say  not." 

"  Did  the  gentleman  give  a  name  ?" 

"  No.     Pra  certain  he  didn't." 

Sir  Patrick  returned  to  the  memorandum. 

" '  He  said  at  dinner,  before  the  landlady  and  the  waiter,  1 
take  these  rooms  for  my  wife.  He  made  her  say  he  was  her 
husband,  at  the  same  time.'  Was  that  done  jocosely,  Mr.  Dela- 
mayn — either  by  the  lady  or  the  gentleman  ?" 

"  No.     It  was  done  in  downright  earnest," 

"  You  mean  it  was  done  to  look  like  earnest,  and  so  to  de 
ceive  the  landlady  and  the  waiter?" 

« Jes."  _ 

Sir  Patrick  returned  to  the  memorandum. 

"'After  that,  he  stopped  all  night.'  Stopped  in  the  rooms 
he  had  taken  for  himself  and  his  wife  ?" 

"  Yes." 

"  And  what  happened  the  next  day  ?" 

"  He  went  away.  Wait  a  bit !  Said  he  had  business,  for  an 
excuse." 

"  That  is  to  say,  he  kept  up  the  deception  with  the  people 
of  the  inn  ?  and  left  the  lady  behind  him,  in  the  character  o\ 
his  wife?" 

"That's  it." 

"  Did  he  go  back  to  the  inn  ?" 

«  No." 

"  How  long  did  the  lady  stay  there,  after  he  had  gone  ?" 

"  She  staid — well,  she  staid  a  few  days." 


MAN    AND    WIFB.  199 

"And  your  friend  has  not  seen  her  since?" 

"No." 

"  Are  your  friend  and  the  lady  English  or  Scotch  ?" 

"  Both  English." 

"At  the  time  when  they  met  at  the  inn,  had  they  either  of 
Jhem  arrived  in  Scotland,  from  the  place  in  which  they  were 
previously  living,  within  a  period  of  less  than  twenty-one 
days?" 

Geoffrey  hesitated.  There  could  be  no  difficulty  in  answer- 
ing for  Anne.  Lady  Lundie  and  her  domestic  circle  had  occu- 
Eied  Windygates  for  a  much  longer  period  than  three  weeks 
efore  the  date  of  the  lawn-party.  The  question,  as  it  affected 
Arnold,  was  the  only  question  that  required  reflection.  After 
searching  his  memory  for  details  of  the  conversation  which 
had  taken  place  between  them,  when  he  and  Arnold  had  met 
at  the  lawn-party,  Geoffrey  recalled  a  certain  reference  on  the 
part  of  his  friend  to  a  performance  at  the  Edinburgh  theatre, 
which  at  once  decided  the  question  of  time.  Arnold  had  been 
necessarily  detained  in  Edinburgh,  before  his  arrival  at  Windy- 
gates,  by  legal  business  connection  with  his  inheritance ;  and 
he,  like  Anne,  had  certainly  been  in  Scotland,  before  they  met 
at  Craig  Fernie,  for  a  longer  period  than  a  period  of  three 
weeks.  He  accordingly  informed  Sir  Patrick  that  the  lady  and 
gentleman  had  been  in  Scotland  for  more  than  twenty-one  days 
— and  then  added  a  question  on  his  oAvn  behalf:  "Don't  let 
me  hurry  you,  sir — but,  shall  you  soon  have  done  ?" 

"  I  shall  have  done,  after  two  more  questions,"  answered  Sir 
Patrick.  "Am  I  to  understand  that  the  lady  claims,  on  the 
strength  of  the  circumstances  which  you  have  mentioned  to 
me,  to  be  your  friend's  wife  ?" 

Geoffrey  made  an  affirmative  reply.  The  readiest  means  of 
obtaining  Sir  Patrick's  opinion  was,  in  this  case,  to  answer  yes. 
In  other  words,  to  represent  Anne  (in  the  character  of  "  the 
lady")  as  claiming  to  be  married  to  Arnold  (in  the  character 
of"  his  friend"). 

Having  made  this  concession  to  circumstances,  he  was,  at 
the  same  time,  quite  cunning  enough  to  see  that  it  was  of  vital 
importance  to  the  purpose  which  he  had  in  view,  to  confine 
himself  strictly  to  this  one  perversion  of  the  truth.  There 
could  be  plainly  no  depending  on  the  lawyer's  opinion,  unless 
that  opinion  was  given  on  the  facts  exactly  as  they  had  oc- 
curred at  the  inn.  To  the  facts  he  had,  thus  far,  carefully 
adhered ;  and  to  the  facts  (with  the  one  inevitable  departure 
from  them  which  had  been  just  forced  on  him)  he  determined 
to  adhere  to  the  end. 

"  Did  no  letters  pass  between  the  lady  and  gentleman  ?" 
pursued  Sir  Patrick. 


200  MAN    AND    WIFE. 

"  None  that  I  know  of,"  answered  Geoffrey,  steadily  return- 
ing to  the  truth. 

"  I  have  done,  Mr.  Delamayn." 

"  Well ;  and  what's  your  opinion  ?" 

"Before  I  give  my  opinion  I  am  bound  to  preface  it  by  a 
personal  statement  which  you  are  not  to  take,  if  you  please,  as 
a  statement  of  the  law.  You  ask  me  to  decide — on  the  facts 
with  which  you  have  supplied  me — whether  your  friend  is,  ac- 
."ording  to  the  law  of  Scotland,  married  or  not?" 

Geoffrey  nodded.     "That's  it  !"  he  said,  eagerly. 

"My  experience,  Mr.  Delamayn,  is  that  any  single  man,  in 
Scotland,  may  marry  any  single  woman,  at  any  time,  and  under 
any  circumstances.  In  short,  after  thirty  years'  practice  as  a 
lawyer,  I  don't  know  what  is  not  a  marriage  in  Scotland." 

"  In  plain  English,"  said  Geoffrey,  "  you  mean  she's  his  wife  ?" 

In  spite  of  his  cunning,  in  spite  of  his  self-command,  his  eyes 
brightened  as  he  said  those  words.  And  the  tone  in  which  he 
spoke— though  too  carefully  guarded  to  be  a  tone  of  triumph 
— was,  to  a  fine  ear,  unmistakably  a  tone  of  relief. 

Neither  the  look  nor  the  tone  was  lost  on  Sir  Patrick. 

His  first  suspicion,  when  he  sat  down  to  the  conference,  had 
been  the  obvious  suspicion  that,  in  speaking  of  "  his  friend," 
Geoffrey  was  speaking  of  himself  But,  like  all  lawyers,  he 
habitually  distrusted  first  impressions,  his  own  included.  His 
object,  thus  far,  Jiad  been  to  solve  the  problem  of  Geoffrey's 
true  position  and  Geoffrey's  real  motive.  He  had  set  the  snare 
accordingly,  and  had  caught  his  bird. 

It  was  now  plain  to  his  mind — first,  that  this  man  who  was 
consulting  him,  was,  in  all  probability,  really  speaking  of  the 
case  of  another  person :  secondly,  that  he  had  an  interest  (of 
what  nature  it  was  impossible  yet  to  say)  in  satisfying  his  own 
mind  that  "his  friend"  was,  by  the  law  of  Scotland,  indisputa- 
bly a  married  man.  Having  penetrated  to  that  extent  the  se- 
cret which  Geoffrey  was  concealing  from  him,  he  abandoned 
the  hope  of  making  any  further  advance  at  that  present  sit- 
ting. The  next  question  to  clear  up  in  the  investigation  was 
the  question  of  who  the  anonymous  "  lady  "  might  be.  And 
the  next  discovery  to  make  was,  whether  "  the  lady"  could,  or 
could  not,  be  identified  with  Anne  Silvester.  Pending  the  in- 
evitable delay  in  reaching  that  result,  the  straight  coarse  was 
(in  Sir  Patrick's  present  state  of  iincertainty)  the  only  course 
to  follow  in  laying  down  the  law.  He  at  once  took  the  ques- 
tion of  the  raai-riage  in  hand — v/ith  no  concealment  whatever, 
as  to  the  legal  bearings  of  it,  from  the  client  who  was  consult- 
ing him. 

"Don't  rush  to  conclusions,  Mr.  Delamayn,"  he  said.  "I 
have  only  told  you  what  my  general  experience  is  thus  far. 


MAN    AND    WIFE.  201 

My  professional  opinion  on  the  special  case  of  your  friend  has 
not  been  given  yet." 

Geoffrey's  face  clouded  again.  Sir  Patrick  carefully  noted 
the  new  change  in  it. 

"  The  law  of  Scotland,"  he  went  on,  "  so  far  as  it  relates  to 
Irregular  Marriages,  is  an  outrage  on  common  decency  and 
common  sense.  If  you  think  my  language  in  thus  describing 
it  too  strong — I  can  refer  you  to  the  language  of  a  judicial  au- 
thority. Lord  Deas  delivered  a  recent  judgment  of  marriage 
in  Scotland,  from  the  bench,  in  these  words  :  '  Consent  makes 
marriage.  No  form  or  ceremony,  civil  or  religious  ;  no  notice 
before,  or  publication  after ;  no  cohabitation,  no  writing,  no 
witnesses  even,  are  essential  to  the  constitution  of  this,  the 
most  important  contract  which  two  persons  can  enter  into.' — 
There  is  a  Scotch  judge's  own  statement  of  the  law  that  he  ad- 
ministers !  Observe,  at  the  same  time,  if  you  please,  that  we 
make  full  legal  provision  in  Scotland  for  contracts  affecting 
the  sale  of  houses  and  lands,  horses  and  dogs.  The  only  con- 
tract which  we  leave  without  safeguards  or  precautions  of  any 
sort  is  the  contract  that  unites  a  man  and  a  woman  for  life. 
As  for  the  authority  of  parents,  and  the  innocence  of  children, 
our  law  recognizes  no  claim  on  it  either  in  the  one  case  or  in 
the  other,  A  girl  of  twelve  and  a  boy  of  fourteen  have  noth- 
ing to  do  but  to  cross  the  Border,  and  to  be  married — without 
the  interposition  of  the  slightest  delay  or  restraint,  and  with- 
out the  slightest  attempt  to  inform  their  parents  on  the  part 
of  the  Scotch  law.  As  to  the  marriages  of  men  and  women, 
even  the  mere  interchange  of  consent  which,  as  you  have  just 
heard,  makes  them  man  and  wife,  is  not  required  to  be  directly 
proved  :  it  may  be  proved  by  inference.  And,  more  even  than 
that,  whatever  the  law  for  its  consistency  may  presume,  men 
and  women  are,  in  point  of  fact,  held  to  be  married  in  Scotland 
where  consent  has  never  been  interchanged,  and  where  the 
parties  do  not  even  know  that  they  are  legally  held  to  be 
married  persons.  Are  you  sufficiently  confused  about  the  law 
of  Irregular  Marriages  in  Scotland  by  this  time,  Mr.  Dela- 
mayn  ?  And  have  I  said  enough  to  justify  the  strong  lan- 
guage I  used  when  I  undertook  to  describe  it  to  you  ?" 

"  Who's  that  '  authority '  you  talked  of  just  now  ?"  inquired 
Geoffrey.     "  Couldn't  I  ask  liim .?" 

"You  might  find  him  flatly  contradicted,  if  you  did  ask  him, 
by  another  authority  equally  learned  and  equally  eminent," 
answered  Sir  Patrick.  "  I  am  not  joking — I  am  only  stating 
facts.     Have  you  heard  of  the  Queen's  Commission  ?" 

"  No." 

"  Then  listen  to  this.  In  March,  'sixty-five,  the  Queen  ap- 
pointed a  Commission  to  inquire  into  the  Marriage-Laws  of 


202  MAN    AND    WIFE. 

the  United  Kingdom.  The  report  of  that  Commission  is  pub- 
lished in  London ;  and  is  accessible  to  any  body  who  chooses 
to  pay  the  price  of  two  or  three  shillings  for  it.  One  of  the 
results  of  the  inquiry  was,  the  discovery  that  high  authorities 
were  of  entirely  contrary  opinions  on  one  of  the  vital  ques- 
tions of  Scottish  raarriage-law.  And  the  Commissioners,  in 
announcing  that  fact,  add  that  the  question  of  which  opinion 
is  right  is  still  disputed,  and  has  never  been  made  the  subject 
of  legal  decision.  Authorities  are  everywhere  at  variance 
throughout  the  Report.  A  haze  of  doubt  and  uncertainty 
hangs  in  Scotland  over  the  most  important  contract  of  civil- 
ized life.  If  no  other  reason  existed  for  reforming  the  Scotch 
marriage-law,  there  would  be  reason  enough  afforded  by  that 
one  fact.     An  uncertain  marriage-law  is  a  national  calamity." 

"You  can  tell  me  what  you  think  yourself  about  my  friend's 
case — can't  you  ?"  said  Geoffrey,  still  holding  obstinately  to 
the  end  that  he  had  in  view. 

"Certainly.  Now  that  I  have  given  you  due  warning  of 
the  danger  of  implicitly  relying  on  any  individual  opinion,  I 
may  give  my  opinion  with  a  clear  conscience.  I  say  that  there 
has  not  been  a  positive  marriage  in  this  case.  There  has  been 
evidence  in  favor  of  possibly  establishing  a  marriage — nothing 
more." 

The  distinction  here  was  far  too  fine  to  be  appreciated  by 
Geoffrey's  mind.  He  frowned  heavily,  in  bewilderment  and 
disgust. 

"  Not  married  !"  he  exclaimed,  "  when  they  said  they  were 
man  and  wife,  before  witnesses  ?" 

"That  is  a  common  popular  error,"  said  Sir  Patrick.  "As  I 
have  already  told  you,  witnesses  are  not  legally  necessary  to 
make  a  marriage  in  Scotland.  They  are  only  valuable — as  in 
this  case — to  help,  at  some  future  time,  in  proving  a  marriage 
that  is  in  dispute," 

Geoffrey  caught  at  the  last  words. 

"Tlie  landlady  and  the  waiter  might  make  it  out  to  be  a 
marriage,  then  ?"  he  said. 

"  Yes.  And,  remember,  if  you  choose  to  apply  to  one  of  my 
professional  colleagues,  he  might  possibly  tell  you  they  were 
married  already.  A  state  of  the  law  which  allows  the  inter- 
change of  matrimonial  consent  to  be  proved  by  inference  leaves 
a  wide  door  open  to  conjecture.  Your  friend  refers  to  a  cer- 
tain lady,  in  so  many  words,  as  his  wife.  The  lady  refers  to 
your  friend,  in  so  many  words,  as  her  husband.  In  the  rooms 
which  they  have  taken,  as  man  and  wife,  they  remain,  as  man 
and  wife,  till  the  next  morning.  Your  friend  goes  away,  with 
out  undeceiving  any  body.  The  lady  stays  at  the  inn,  for 
some  days  after,  in'the  character  of  his  wife.     And  all  these 


MAN   AND   WIFE.  203 

Circumstances  take  place  in  the  presence  of  competent  wit- 
nesses. Logically — if  not  legall}'^ — there  is  apparently  an  in- 
ference of  the  interchange  of  matrimonial  consent  here.  I 
stick  to  my  own  opinion,  nevertheless.  Evidence  in  proof  of 
a  marriage  (I  say) — nothing  more." 

While  Sir  Patrick  had  been  speaking,  Geoffrey  had  been 
considering  with  himself  By  dint  of  hard  thinking  he  had 
found  his  way  to  a  decisive  question  on  his  side. 

"Look  here !"  he  said,  dropping  his  heavy  hand  down  on  the 
table.  "  I  want  to  bring  you  to  book,  sir !  Suppose  my  friend 
had  another  lady  in  his  eye  ?" 

"  Yes  ?" 

"As  things  are  now — would  you  advise  him  to  marry  her?" 

"  As  things  are  now — certainly  not !" 

Geoffrey  got  briskly  on  his  legs,  and  closed  the  interview. 

"  That  will  do,"  he  said,  "  for  him  and  for  me." 

With  those  words  he  walked  back,  without  ceremony,  into 
the  main  thoroughfare  of  the  room. 

"I  don't  know  who  your  friend  is,"  thought  Sir  Patrick, 
looking  after  him,  "  But  if  your  interest  in  the  question  of 
his  marriage  is  an  honest  and  a  harmless  interest,  I  know  no 
more  of  human  nature  than  the  babe  unborn  !" 

Immediately  on  leaving  Sir  Patrick,  Geoffrey  was  encoun- 
tered by  one  of  the  servants  in  search  of  him. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  sir,"  began  the  man.  "  The  groom 
from  the  Honorable  Mr.  Delamayn's — " 

"  Yes  ?  The  fellow  who  brought  me  a  note  from  my  brother 
this  morning?" 

"  He's  expected  back,  sir — he's  afraid  he  mustn't  wait  any 
longei'." 

"  Come  here,  and  Pll  give  you  the  answer  for  him." 

He  led  the  way  to  the  writing  table,  and  referred  to  Julius's 
letter  again.  He  ran  his  eye  carelessly  over  it,  until  he  reached 
the  final  lines :  "  Come  to-morrow,  and  help  us  to  receive  Mrs. 
Glenarm."  For  a  while  he  paused,  with  his  eye  fixed  on  that 
sentence ;  and  with  the  happiness  of  three  people — of  Anne, 
who  had  loved  him ;  of  Arnold,  who  had  served  him ;  of 
Blanche,  guiltless  of  injuring  him — resting  on  the  decision  that 
guided  his  movements  for  the  next  day.  After  what  had 
passed  that  morning  between  Arnold  and  Blanche,  if  he  re- 
mained at  Lady  Lundie's,  he  had  no  alternative  but  to  per- 
form his  promise  to  Anne.  If  he  returned  to  his  brother's 
house,  he  had  no  alternative  but  to  desert  Anne,  on  the  infa- 
mous pretext  that  she  was  Arnold's  wife. 

He  suddenly  tossed  the  letter  away  from  him  on  the  table, 
and  snatched  a  sheet  of  note-paper  out  of  the  writing-case. 
"  Here  goes  for  Mrs.  Glenarm !"  he  said  to  himself;  and  wrote 


204  MA>f    AND    WIFB. 

back  to  his  brother,  in  one  line :  "  Dear  Julius,  expect  me  to^ 
morrow.  G.  D."  The  impassible  man-servant  stood  by  while 
he  wrote,  looking  at  his  magnificent  breadth  of  chest  and  think- 
ing what  a  glorious  "  staying-power "  was  there  for  the  last 
terrible  mile  of  the  coming  race. 

"  There  you  are !"  he  said,  and  handed  his  note  to  the  man. 

"  All  right,  Geoffrey  ?"  asked  a  friendly  voice  behind  him. 
He  turned — and  saw  Arnold,  anxious  for  news  of  the  consul- 
tation with  Sir  Patrick. 

"  Yes,"  he  said.     "  All  right." 

Note. — There  are  certain  readers  who  feel  a  disposition  to  doubt  Facts,  when 
they  meet  with  them  in  a  work  of  fiction.  Persons  of  this  way  of  thinking  may 
be  profitably  referred  to  the  book  which  first  suggested  to  me  the  idea  of  writ- 
ing the  present  Novel.  The  book  is  the  Report  of  the  Royal  Commissioners  on 
the  Laws  of  Marriage.  Published  by  the  Queen's  Printers.  For  her  Majes- 
ty's Stationery  Ofiice.  (London,  1868.)  What  Sir  Patrick  says  professionally 
of  Scotch  Marriages  in  this  chapter  is  taken  from  this  high  authority.  What 
the  lawyer  (in  the  Prologue)  says  professionally  of  Irish  Marriages  is  also  de- 
rived from  the  same  source.  It  is  needless  to  encumber  these  pages  with  quo- 
tations. But  as  a  means  of  satisfying  my  readers  that  they  may  depend  on  me, 
I  subjoin  an  extract  from  my  list  of  references  to  the  Report  of  the  Marriage 
Commission,  which  any  persons  who  may  be  so  inclined  can  verify  for  them- 
selves. 

Irish  Marriages  (in  the  Prologue). — See  Report,  pages  XII.,  XIIL,  XXIV. 

Irregular  Marriages  in  Scotland.  Statement  of  the  law  by  Lord  Deas.  Re- 
port, page  XVI. — Mari'iages  of  children  of  tender  years.  Examination  of  Mr. 
Muirhead  by  Lord  Chelmsford  (Question  ()8i»). — Interchange  of  consent,  estab- 
lished by  inference.  Examination  of  Mr.  Muirhead  by  the  Lord  Justice  Clerk 
(Question  G54). — Marriage  where  consent  has  never  been  interchanged.  Ob- 
servations of  Lord  Ueas.  Report,  page  XIX. — Contradiction  of  opinions  be- 
tween authorities.  Report,  pages  XIX.,  XX. — Legal  provision  for  the  sale  of 
horses  and  dogs.  No  legal  provision  for  the  marriage  of  men  and  women.  Mr. 
Seeton's  Remarks.  Report,  page  XXX. — Conclusion  of  the  Commissioners. 
In  spite  of  the  arguments  advanced  before  them  in  favor  of  not  interfering  with 
Irregular  Marriages  in  Scotland,  the  Commissioners  declare  their  opinion  that 
"Such  marriages  ought  not  to  continue."     (Report,  page  XXXIV.) 

In  reference  to  the  arguments  (alluded  to  above)  in  favor  of  allowing  the  pres- 
ent disgraceful  state  of  things  to  continue,  I  find  them  resting  mainly  on  these 
grounds :  That  Scotland  doesn't  like  being  interfered  with  by  England  (!).  That 
Irregular  Marriages  cost  nothing  (!  !).  That  they  are  diminishing  in  number, 
and  may  therefore  be  trusted,  in  course  of  time,  to  exhaust  themselves  (! ! !). 
That  they  act,  on  certain  occasions,  in  the  capacity  of  a  moral  trap  to  catch  a 
profligate  man  (! !  ! !).  Such  is  the  elevated  point  of  view  from  which  the  In- 
stitution of  Marriage  is  regarded  by  some  of  the  most  pious  and  learned  men  in 
Scotland.  A  legal  enactment  providing  for  the  sale  of  your  wife,  when  you 
have  done  with  her,  or  of  your  husband,  when  you  "really  cin't  put  up  with 
him  any  longer,"  appears  to  be  all  that  is  wanting  to  render  this  North  British 
estimate  of  the  "Estate  of  Matrimony  "  practically  complete.  It  is  only  fair  to 
add  that,  of  the  witnesses  giving  evidence — oral  and  written — before  the  Com- 
missioners, fully  one-half  regard  the  Irregular  Marriages  of  Scotland  from  the 
Christian  and  the  civilized  point  of  view,  and  entirely  agree  with  the  authorita- 
tive conclusion  already  cited — that  such  marriages  ought  to  be  abolished. 
^  W.  C. 


MAN    AND   WIFE.  206 


CHAPTER  THE  TWENTY-FHIST. 

DONE  ! 

Arnold  was  a  little  surprised  by  the  curt  manner  in  which 
Geoffrey  answered  him. 

"  Has  Sir  Patrick  said  any  thing  unpleasant  ?"  he  asked. 

"Sir  Patrick  has  said  just  what  I  wanted  him  to  say." 

"  No  difficulty  about  the  marriage  ?" 

"None." 

"  No  fear  of  Blanche — " 

"She  won't  ask  you  to  go  to  Craig  Fernie — I'll  answer  for 
that !"  He  said  the  words  with  a  strong  emphasis  on  them, 
took  his  brother's  letter  from  the  table,  snatched  up  his  hat, 
and  went  out. 

His  friends,  idling  on  the  lawn,  hailed  him.  He  passed  by 
them  quickly  without  answering,  without  so  much  as  a  glance 
at  them  over  his  shoulder.  Arriving  at  the  rose-garden,  he 
stopped  and  took  out  his  pijDC ;  then  suddenly  changed  his 
mind,  and  turned  back  again  by  another  path.  There  was  no 
certainty,  at  that  hour  of  the  day,  of  his  being  left  alone  in  the 
rose-garden.  He  had  a  fierce  and  hungry  longing  to  be  by 
himself;  he  felt  as  if  he  could  have  been  the  death  of  any  body 
who  came  and  spoke  to  him  at  that  moment.  With  his  head 
down  and  his  brows  knit  heavily,  he  followed  the  path  to  see 
what  it  ended  in.  It  ended  in  a  wicket-gate  which  led  into  a 
kitchen-garden.  Here  he  was  well  out  of  the  way  of  interrup- 
tion :  there  was  nothing  to  attract  visitors  in  the  kitchen-gar- 
den. He  went  on  to  a  walnut-tree  planted  in  the  middle  of 
the  inclosure,  with  a  wooden  bench  and  a  broad  strip  of  turf 
running  round  it.  After  first  looking  about  him,  he  seated 
himself  and  lit  his  pipe. 

"  I  wish  it  was  done  !"  he  said. 

He  sat,  with  his  elbows  on  his  knees,  smoking  and  thinking. 
Before  long  the  restlessness  that  had  got  possession  of  him 
forced  him  to  his  feet  again.  He  rose,  and  paced  round  and 
round  the  strip  of  greensward  under  the  walnut-tree,  like  a 
wild  beast  in  a  cage. 

What  was  the  meaning  of  this  disturbance  in  the  inner 
man  ?  Now  that  he  had  committed  himself  to  the  betrayal 
of  the  friend  who  had  trusted  and  served  him,  was  he  torn  by 
remorse  ? 

He  was  no  more  torn  by  remorse  than  you  are  while  your 


206  MAN   AND   WIFB. 

eye  is  passing  over  this  sentence.  He  was  simply  in  a  raging 
fever  of  impatience  to  see  himself  safely  lauded  at  the  end 
which  he  had  in  view. 

Why  should  he  feel  remorse  ?  All  remorse  springs,  more  or 
less  directly,  from  the  action  of  two  sentiments,  which  are  nei- 
ther of  them  inbred  in  the  natural  man.  The  first  of  these  sen- 
timents is  the  product  of  the  respect  which  we  learn  to  feel  for 
ourselves.  The  second  is  the  product  of  the  respect  which  we 
learn  to  feel  for  others.  In  their  highest  manifestations,  these 
two  feelings  exalt  themselves,  until  the  first  becomes  the  love 
of  God,  and  the  second  the  love  of  Man.  I  have  injured  you, 
and  I  repent  of  it  when  it  is  done.  Why  should  I  repent  of  it 
if  I  have  gained  something  by  it  for  my  own  self,  and  if  you 
can't  make  me  feel  it  by  injuring  Me  ?  I  rej^ent  of  it,  because 
there  has  been  a  sense  put  into  me  which  tells  me  that  I  have 
sinned  against  Myself,  and  sinned  against  You.  No  such 
sense  as  that  exists  among  the  instincts  of  the  natural  man. 
And  no  such  feelings  as  these  troubled  Geoifrey  Delamayn  ; 
for  Geoffrey  Delamayn  was  the  natural  man. 

When  the  idea  of  his  scheme  had  sprung  to  life  in  his  mind, 
the  novelty  of  it  had  startled  him — the  enormous  daring  of  it, 
suddenly  self-revealed,  had  daunted  him.  The  signs  of  emo- 
tion which  he  had  betrayed  at  the  writing-table  in  the  library 
were  the  signs  of  mere  mental  perturbation,  and  of  nothing 
more. 

That  first  vivid  impression  past,  the  idea  had  made  itself  fa- 
miliar to  him.  He  had  become  composed  enough  to  see  such 
difficulties  as  it  involved,  and  such  consequences  as  it  implied. 
These  had  fretted  him  with  a  passing  trouble ;  for  these  he 
plainly  discerned.  As  for  the  cruelty  and  the  treachery  of  the 
thing  he  meditated  doing — that  consideration  never  crossed 
the  limits  of  his  mental  view.  His  position  toward  the  man 
whose  life  he  had  preserved  was  the  position  of  a  dog.  The 
"noble  animal"  who  has  saved  you  or  me  from  drowning  will 
fly  at  your  throat  or  mine,  under  certain  conditions,  ten  min- 
utes afterward.  Add  to  the  dog's  unreasoning  instinct  the 
calculating  cunning  of  a  man ;  suppose  yourself  to  be  in  a  po- 
sition to  say  of  some  trifling  thing,  "  Curious  !  at  such  and 
such  a  time  I  happened  to  pick  up  such  and  such  an  object ; 
and  now  it  turns  out  to  be  of  some  use  to  me  !" — and  there 
you  have  an  index  to  the  state  of  Geoffrey's  feeling  toward  his 
friend  when  he  recalled  the  past  or  when  he  contemplated  the 
future.  When  Arnold  had  spoken  to  him  at  the  critical  mo- 
ment, Arnold  had  violently  irritated  him  ;  and  that  was  all. 

The  same  impenetrable  insensibility,  the  same  primitively 
natural  condition  of  the  moral  being,  prevented  him  from  be- 
ing troubled  by  the  slightest  sense  of  pity  for  Anne.     "  She's 


MAN   AND   WIFE.  207 

out  of  111}'  way  !"  was  his  first  thought.  "  She's  pi-ovided  for, 
without  any  trouble  to  Me  !"  was  his  second.  He  was  not  in 
the  least  uneasy  about  her.  Not  the  slightest  doubt  crossed 
his  mind  that,  when  once  she  had  realized  her  own  situation, 
when  once  she  saw  herself  placed  between  the  two  alternatives 
of  facing  her  own  ruin  or  of  claiming  Arnold  as  a  last  resource, 
she  would  claim  Arnold.  She  would  do  it  as  a  matter  of 
course ;  because  he  would  have  done  it  in  her  place. 

But  he  wanted  it  over.  He  was  Avild,  as  he  paced  round 
and  round  the  walnut-tree,  to  hurry  on  the  crisis  and  be  done 
with  it.  Give  me  my  freedom  to  go  to  the  other  woman,  and 
to  train  for  the  foot-race — that's  what  I  want.  They  injured? 
Confusion  to  them  both  !  It's  I  who  am  injured  by  them. 
They  are  the  worst  enemies  I  have !     They  stand  in  my  way. 

How  to  be  rid  of  them  ?  There  was  the  difficulty.  He  had 
made  up  his  mind  to  be  rid  of  them  that  day.  How  was  he  td 
begin? 

There  was  no  picking  a  quarrel  with  Arnold,  and  so  begin- 
ning  with  him.  This  course  of  proceeding,  in  Arnold's  position 
toward  Blanche,  would  lead  to  a  scandal  at  the  outset — a  scan^ 
dal  which  would  stand  in  the  way  of  his  making  the  right  im- 
pression  on  Mrs.  Glenarm.  The  woman — lonely  and  friendless, 
with  her  sex  and  her  position  both  against  her  if  she  tried  to 
make  a  scandal  of  it — the  woman  was  the  one  to  begin  with. 
Settle  it  at  once  and  forever  with  Anne ;  and  leave  Arnold  to 
hear  of  it  and  deal  with  it,  sooner  or  later,  no  matter  which. 

How  was  he  to  break  it  to  her  before  the  day  was  out  ? 

By  going  to  the  inn  and  openly  addressing  her  to  her  face 
as  Mrs.  Arnold  Brinkworth  ?  No  !  He  had  had  enough,  at 
Windygates,  of  meeting  her  face  to  face.  The  easy  way  was 
to  write  to  her,  and  send  the  letter,  by  the  first  messenger  he 
could  find,  to  the  inn.  She  might  appear  afterward  at  Windy- 
gates  ;  she  might  follow  him  to  his  brother's  ;  she  might  ap- 
peal to  his  father.  It  didn't  matter ;  he  had  got  the  whip- 
hand  of  her  now.  "  You  are  a  married  woman."  There  was 
the  one  sufficient  answer,  which  was  strong  enough  to  back 
him  in  denying  any  thing  ! 

He  made  out  the  letter  in  his  own  mind.  "  Something  like 
this  would  do,"  he  thought,  as  he  went  round  and  round  the 
walnut-tree:  "You  may  be  surprised  not  to  have  seen  me. 
You  have  only  yourself  to  thank  for  it.  I  know  what  took 
place  between  you  and  him  at  the  inn.  I  have  had  a  lawyer's 
advice.  You  are  Arnold  Brinkworth's  wife.  I  wish  you  joy, 
and  good-bye  forever."  Address  those  lines  :  "  To  Mrs.  Arnold 
Brinkworth;"  instruct  the  messenger  to  leave  the  letter  late  that 
night,  without  waiting  for  an  answer ;  start  the  first  thing  the 
next  morning  for  his  brother's  house ;  and  behold,  it  was  done  ] 


208  MAN   AND   ■WTPB. 

But  even  here  there  was  an  obstacle — one  last  exasperating 
obstacle — still  in  the  way. 

If  she  was  known  at  the  inn  by  any  name  at  all,  it  was  by 
the  name  of  Mrs,  Silvester.  A  letter  addressed  to  "  Mrs.  Ar- 
nold Brinkworth  "  would  probably  not  be  taken  in  at  the  door ; 
or  if  it  was  admitted,  and  if  it  was  actually  offered  to  her,  she 
might  decline  to  receive  it,  as  a  letter  not  addressed  to  herself. 
A  man  of  readier  mental  resources  would  have  seen  that  the 
name  on  the  outside  of  the  letter  mattered  little  or  nothing, 
so  long  as  the  contents  were  read  by  the  person  to  whom  they 
were  addressed.  But  Geoffrey's  was  the  order  of  mind  which 
expresses  disturbance  by  attaching  importance  to  trifles.  He 
attached  an  absurd  importance  to  preserving  absolute  consist- 
ency in  his  letter,  outside  and  in.  If  he  declared  her  to  be  Ar- 
nold Brinkworth's  wife,  he  must  direct  to  her  as  Arnold  Brink- 
worth's  wife;  or  who  could  tell  what  the  law  might  say,  or 
what  scrape  he  might  not  get  himself  into  by  a  mere  scratch 
of  the  pen  !  The  more  he  thought  of  it,  the  more  persuaded 
he  felt  of  his  own  cleverness  here,  and  the  hotter  and  the  an- 
grier he  grew. 

There  is  a  way  out  of  every  thing.  And  there  was  surely 
a  way  out  of  this,  if  he  could  only  see  it. 

He  failed  to  see  it.  After  dealing  with  all  the  great  diffi- 
culties, the  small  difficulty  proved  too  much  for  him.  It  struck 
him  that  he  might  have  been  thinking  too  long  about  it — con- 
sidering that  he  was  not  accustomed  to  thinking  long  about 
any  thing.  Besides,  his  head  was  getting  giddy  with  going 
mechanically  round  and  round  the  tree.  He  irritably  turned 
his  back  on  the  tree,  and  struck  into  another  path :  resolved  to 
think  of  something  else,  and  then  to  return  to  his  difficulty, 
and  see  it  with  a  new  eye. 

Leaving  his  thoughts  free  to  wander  where  they  liked,  his 
thoughts  naturally  busied  themselves  with  the  next  subject 
that  was  uppermost  in  his  mind,  the  subject  of  the  Foot-race. 
In  a  week's  time  his  arrangements  ought  to  be  made.  Now, 
as  to  the  training,  first. 

.  He  decided  on  employing  two  trainers  this  time.  One  to 
travel  to  Scotland,  and  begin  with  him  at  his  brother's  house. 
The  other  to  take  him  up,  with  a  fresh  eye  to  him,  on  his  re- 
turn to  London.  He  turned  over  in  his  mind  the  performances 
of  the  formidable  rival  against  whom  he  was  to  be  matched. 
That  other  man  was  the  swiftest  runner  of  the  two.  The  bet- 
ting in  Geoffrey's  favor  was  betting  which  calculated  on  the 
unparalleled  length  of  the  race,  and  on  Geoffrey's  prodigious 
powers  of  endurance.  How  long  he  should  "  wait  on "  the 
man?  Whereabouts  it  would  be  safe  to  "  pick  the  man  up  ?" 
How  near  the  end  to  calculate  the  man's  exhaustion  to  a  nice- 


MAN   AND   WIFE.  209 

ty  and  "put  on  the  spurt,"  and  pass  him?  These  were  nice 
points  to  decide.  The  deliberations  of  a  pedestrian-privy-coun- 
cil would  be  required  to  help  him  under  this  heavy  responsi- 
bility. What  men  could  he  trust  ?  He  could  trust  A  and  B — 
both  of  them  authorities  :  both  of  them  staunch.  Query  about 
C  ?  As  an  authority,  unexceptionable  ;  as  a  man,  doubtful. 
The  problem  relating  to  C  brought  him  to  a  standstill — and 
declined  to  be  solved,  even  then.  Never  mind  !  he  could  al- 
ways take  the  advice  of  A  and  B.  In  the  mean  time,  devote 
C  to  the  infernal  regions ;  and,  thus  dismissing  him,  try  and 
think  of  something  else.  What  else  ?  Mrs.  Glenarm  ?  Oh, 
bother  the  women  !  one  of  them  is  the  same  as  another.  They 
all  waddle  when  they  run ;  and  they  all  fill  their  stomachs  be- 
fore dinner  with  sloppy  tea.  That's  the  only  difference  be- 
tween women  and  men — the  rest  is  nothing  but  a  weak  imita- 
tion of  Us.  Devote  the  women  to  the  infernal  regions  ;  and, 
so  dismissing  them,  try  and  think  of  something  else.  Of  what? 
Of  something  worth  thinking  of,  this  time — of  filling  another 
pipe. 

He  took  out  his  tobacco-pouch,  and  suddenly  suspended  op- 
erations at  the  moment  of  opening  it. 

What  was  the  object  he  saw,  on  the  other  side  of  a  row  of 
dwarf  pear-trees,  away  to  the  right  ?  A  woman — evidently  a 
servant,  by  her  dress — stooping  down  with  her  back  to  him, 
gathering  something :  herbs  they  looked  like,  as  well  as  he 
could  make  them  oat  at  the  distance. 

What  was  that  thing  hanging  by  a  string  at  the  woman's 
side  ?  A  slate  ?  Yes.  What  the  deuce  did  she  want  with  a 
slate  at  her  side?  He  was  in  search  of  something  to  divert  his 
mind,  and  here  it  was  found.  "Any  thing  will  do  for  me,"  he 
thought.     "  Suppose  I '  chaff'  her  a  little  about  her  slate  ?" 

He  called  to  the  woman  across  the  pear-trees.     "  Halloo  !" 

The  woman  raised  herself,  and  advanced  toward  him  slowly 
— looking  at  him,  as  she  came  on,  with  the  sunken  eyes,  the 
sorrow-stricken  face,  the  stony  tranquillity  of  Hester  Deth- 
ridge. 

Geoffrey  was  staggered.  He  had  not  bargained  for  ex- 
changing the  dullest  producible  vulgarities  of  human  speech 
(called  in  the  language  of  slang,  "  Chaff  ")  with  such  a  woman 
as  this. 

"  What's  that  slate  for  ?"  he  asked,  not  knowing  what  else 
to  say,  to  begin  with. 

The  woman  lifted  her  hand  to  her  lips — touched  them — and 
shook  her  head. 

"  Dumb  ?" 

The  woman  bowed  her  head. 

"  Who  are  you  ?" 
14 


210  MAN    AND   WIPE. 

The  woman  wrote  on  her  slate,  and  handed  it  to  him  over 
the  pear-trees.     He  read  :  "  I  am  the  cook." 

"  Well,  cook,  were  you  born  dumb  ?" 

The  woman  shook  her  head. 

"  What  struck  you  dumb  ?" 

The  woman  wrote  on  her  slate:  "A  blow." 

"  Who  gave  you  the  blow  ?" 

She  shook  her  head. 

"  Won't  you  tell  me  ?" 

She  shook  her  head  again. 

Her  eyes  had  rested  on  his  face  while  he  was  questioning 
her;  staring  at  him,  cold,  dull,  and  changeless  as  the  eyes  of 
a  corpse.  Firm  as  his  nerves  were — dense  as  he  was,  on  all  or- 
dinary occasions,  to  any  thing  in  the  shape  of  an  imaginative 
impression — the  eyes  of  the  dumb  cook  slowly  peneti'ated  him 
with  a  stealthy  inner  chill.  Something  crept  at  the  marrow 
of  his  back,  and  shuddered  under  the  roots  of  his  hair.  He 
felt  a  sudden  impulse  to  get  away  from  her.  It  was  simple 
enough ;  he  had  only  to  say  good-morning,  and  go  on.  He 
did  say  good-morning — but  he  never  moved.  He  put  his  hand 
into  his  pocket,  and  oflered  her  some  money,  as  a  way  of  mak- 
ing her  go.  She  stretched  out  her  hand  across  the  pear-trees 
to  take  it — and  stopped  abruptly,  with  her  arm  suspended  in 
the  air.  A  sinister  change  passed  over  the  death-like  tranquil- 
lity of  her  face.  Her  closed  lips  slowly  dropped  apart.  Her 
dull  eyes  slowly  dilated  ;  looked  away,  sideways,  from  his 
eyes ;  stopped  again  ;  and  stared,  rigid  and  glittering,  over 
his  shoulder — stared  as  if  they  saw  a  sight  of  horror  behind 
him.  "  What  the  devil  are  you  looking  at  ?"  he  asked — and 
turned  round  quickly,  with  a  start.  There  was  neither  person 
nor  thing  to  be  seen  behind  him.  He  turned  back  again  to 
the  woman.  The  woman  had  left  him,  under  the  influence  of 
some  sudden  panic.  She  was  hurrying  away  from  him — run- 
ning, old  as  she  was — flying  the  sight  of  him,  as  if  the  sight  of 
him  was  the  pestilence. 

"  Mad  !"  he  thought — and  turned  his  back  on  the  sight  of 
her. 

He  found  himself  (hardly  knowing  how  he  had  got  there) 
under  the  walnut-tree  once  more.  In  a  few  minutes  his  hardy 
nerves  had  recovered  themselves — he  could  laugh  over  the  re- 
membrance of  the  strange  impression  that  had  been  produced 
on  him.  "  Frightened  for  the  first  time  in  my  life,"  he  thought 
— "  and  that  by  an  old  woman  !  It's  time  I  went  into  training 
again,  when  things  have  come  to  this  !" 

He  looked  at  his  watch.  It  was  close  on  the  luncheon  hour 
up  at  the  house ;  and  he  had  not  decided  yet  what  to  do  about 
his  letter  to  Anne.     He  resolved  to  decide,  then  and  there, 


MAN    AND    WIFE.  211 

The  woman — the  dnmb  woman,  with  the  stony  face  and  the 
horrid  eyes — re-appeared  in  his  thoughts,  and  got  in  the  way 
of  his  decision.  Pooh !  some  crazed  old  servant,  who  might 
once  have  been  cook ;  who  was  kept  out  of  charity  now. 
Nothing  more  important  than  that.  No  more  of  her !  no  more 
of  her ! 

He  laid  himself  down  on  the  grass,  and  gave  his  mind  to 
the  serious  question.  How  to  address  Anne  as  "  Mrs.  Arnold 
Brinkworth  ?"  and  how  to  make  sure  of  her  receiving  the  let- 
ter? 

The  dumb  old  woman  got  in  his  way  again. 

He  closed  his  eyes  impatiently,  and  tried  to  shut  her  out  in 
a  darkness  of  his  own  making. 

The  woman  showed  herself  through  the  darkness.  He  saw 
her,  as  if  he  had  just  asked  her  a  question,  writing  on  her 
slate.  What  she  wrote  he  failed  to  make  out.  It  was  all 
over  in  an  instant.  He  started  up,  with  a  feeling  of  astonish- 
ment at  himself — and,  at  the  same  moment,  his  brain  cleared 
with  the  suddenness  of  a  flash  of  light.  He  saw  his  way,  with- 
out a  conscious  efibrt  on  his  own  part,  through  the  difficulty 
that  had  troubled  him.  Two  envelopes,  of  course  :  an  inner 
one,  unsealed,  and  addressed  to  "  Mrs.  Arnold  Brinkworth  ;" 
an  outer  one,  sealed,  and  addressed  to  "  Mrs.  Silvester :"  and 
there  was  the  problem  solved  !  Surely  the  simplest  problem 
that  had  ever  puzzled  a  stupid  head. 

Why  had  he  not  seen  it  before?    Impossible  to  say. 

How  came  he  to  have  seen  it  now  ? 

The  dumb  old  woman  re-appeared  in  his  thoughts — as  if  the 
answer  to  the  question  lay  in  something  connected  with  her. 

He  became  alarmed  about  himself,  for  the  first  time  in  his 
life.  Had  this  persistent  impression,  produced  by  nothing  but 
a  crazy  old  woman,  any  thing  to  do  with  the  broken  health 
which  the  surgeon  had  talked  about  ?  Was  his  head  on  the 
turn  ?  Or  had  he  smoked  too  much  on  an  empty  stomach,  and 
gone  too  long  (after  traveling  all  night)  without  his  custom- 
ary drink  of  ale  ? 

He  left  the  garden  to  put  that  latter  theory  to  the  test 
forthwith.  The  betting  would  have  gone  dead  against  him  if 
the  public  had  seen  him  at  that  moment.  He  looked  haggard 
and  anxious — and  with  good  reason  too.  His  nervous  system 
had  suddenly  forced  itself  on  his  notice,  without  the  slightest 
previous  introduction,  and  was  saying  (in  an  unknown  tongue), 
Here  I  am ! 

Returning  to  the  purely  ornamental  part  of  the  grounds, 
Geofirey  encountered  one  of  the  footmen  giving  a  message  to 
one  of  the  gardeners.  He  at  once  asked  for  the  butler — as  the 
only  safe  authority  to  consult  in  the  present  emergency. 


212  MAN   AND   WIPE. 

Conducted  to  the  butler's  pantry,  Geoffrey  requested  that 
functionary  to  produce  a  jug  of  his  oldest  ale,  with  appropri- 
ate solid  nourishment  in  the  shape  of  "a  hunk  of  bread  and 
cheese." 

The  butler  stared.  As  a  form  of  condescension  among  the 
upper  classes  this  was  quite  new  to  him. 

"  Luncheon  will  be  ready  directly,  sir." 

"  What  is  there  for  lunch  ?" 

The  butler  ran  over  an  appetizing  list  of  good  dishes  and 
rare  wines. 

"  The  devil  take  your  kickshaws  !"  said  Geoffrey.  "  Give 
me  my  old  ale,  and  my  hunk  of  bread  and  cheese." 

"  Where  will  you  take  them,  sir  ?" 

"  Here,  to  be  sure  !     And  the  sooner  the  better." 

The  butler  issued  the  necessary  orders  with  all  needful  alac- 
rity. He  spread  the  simple  refreshment  demanded,  before  his 
distinguished  guest,  in  a  state  of  blank  bewilderment.  Here 
was  a  nobleman's  son,  and  a  public  celebrity  into  the  bargain, 
filling  himself  with  bread  and  cheese  and  ale,  in  at  once  the 
most  voracious  and  the  most  unpretending  manner,  at  his  ta- 
ble !  The  butler  ventured  on  a  little  complimentary  familiari- 
ty. He  smiled,  and  touched  the  betting-book  in  his  breast- 
pocket. "  I've  put  six  pound  on  you,  sir,  for  the  Race."  "All 
right,  old  boy  !  you  shall  win  your  money  !"  With  those  no- 
ble words  the  honorable  gentleman  clapped  him  on  the  back, 
and  held  out  his  tumbler  for  some  more  ale.  The  butler  felt 
trebly  an  Englishman  as  he  filled  the  foaming  glass.  Ah  !  for- 
eign nations  may  have  their  revolutions !  foreign  aristocracies 
may  tumble  down  !  The  British  aristocracy  lives  in  the  hearts 
of  the  people,  and  lives  forever  ! 

"Another!"  said  Geoffrey,  presenting  his  empty  glass. 
"Here's  luck!"  He  tossed  off  his  liquor  at  a  draught,  and 
nodded  to  the  butler,  and  went  out. 

Had  the  experiment  succeeded  ?  Had  he  proved  his  own 
theory  about  himself  to  be  right  ?  Not  a  doubt  of  it !  An 
empty  stomach,  and  a  determination  of  tobacco  to  the  head — 
these  were  the  true  causes  of  that  strange  state  of  mind  into 
which  he  had  fallen  in  the  kitchen-garden.  The  dumb  woman 
with  the  stony  face  vanished  as  if  in  a  mist.  He  felt  nothing 
now  but  a  comfortable  buzzing  in  his  head,  a  genial  warmth 
all  over  him,  and  an  unlimited  capacity  for  carrying  any  re- 
sponsibility that  could  rest  on  mortal  shoulders.  Geoffrey  was 
himself  again. 

He  went  round  toward  the  library,  to  write  his  letter  to 
Anne — and  so  have  done  with  that,  to  begin  with.  The  com- 
pany had  collected  in  the  library  waiting  for  the  luncheon- 
bell.     All  were  idly  talking  ;  and  some  would  be  certain,  if  he 


MAN    AND    WIFE.  213 

showed  himself,  to  fasten  on  him.  He  turned  back  again, 
without  showing  himself.  The  only  way  of  writing  in  peace 
and  quietness  would  be  to  wait  until  they  were  all  at  lunch- 
eon, and  then  return  to  the  library.  The  same  opportunity 
would  serve  also  for  finding  a  messenger  to  take  the  letter, 
without  exciting  attention,  and  for  going  away  afterward,  un- 
seen, on  a  long  walk,  by  himself  An  absence  of  two  or  three 
hours  would  cast  the  necessary  dust  in  Arnold's  eyes ;  for  it 
would  be  certainly  interpreted  by  him  as  meaning  absence  at 
an  interview  with  Anne. 

He  strolled  idly  through  the  grounds,  farther  and  farther 
away  from  the  house. 

The  talk  in  the  library — aimless  and  empty  enough,  for  the 
most  part — was  talk  to  the  purpose,  in  one  corner  of  the  room, 
in  which  Sir  Patrick  and  Blanche  were  sitting  together. 

"  Uncle  !  I  have  been  watching  you  for  the  last  minute  or 
two." 

"At  my  age,  Blanche,  that  is  paying  me  a  very  pretty  com- 
pliment." 

"  Do  you  know  what  I  have  seen  ?" 

"  You  have  seen  an  old  gentleman  in  want  of  his  lunch." 

"  I  have  seen  an  old  gentleman  with  something  on  his  mind. 
What  is  it?" 

"  Suppressed  gout,  my  dear." 

"  That  won't  do  !  I  am  not  to  be  put  off  in  that  way.  Un- 
cle !  I  want  to  know — " 

"  Stop  there,  Blanche  !  A  young  lady  who  says  she  'wants 
to  know,'  expresses  very  dangerous  sentiments.  Eve '  wanted 
to  know ' — and  see  what  it  led  to.  Faust '  wanted  to  know ' 
— and  got  into  bad  company,  as  the  necessary  result." 

"You  are  feeling  anxious  about  something,"  persisted 
Blanche.  "  And,  what  is  more.  Sir  Patrick,  you  behaved  in  a 
most  unaccountable  manner  a  little  while  since." 

"  When  ?" 

"  When  you  went  and  hid  yourself  with  Mr.  Delamayn  in 
that  snug  corner  there.  I  saw  you  lead  the  way  in,  while  I 
was  at  work  on  Lady  Lundie's  odious  dinner-invitations." 

"  Oh  !  you  call  that  being  at  work,  do  you  ?  I  wonder 
whether  there  was  ever  a  woman  yet  who  could  give  the 
whole  of  her  mind  to  any  earthly  thing  that  she  had  to  do  ?" 

"  Never  mind  the  women  !  What  subject  in  common  could 
you  and  Mr.  Delamayn  possibly  have  to  talk  about  ?  And 
why  do  I  see  a  wrinkle  between  your  eyebrows,  now  you  have 
done  with  him? — a  wrinkle  which  certainly  wasn't  there  be- 
fore you  had  that  private  conference  together  ?" 

Before  answering,  Sir  Patrick  considered  whether  he  should 


214  MAN    AND    WIFE. 

take  Blanche  into  his  confidence  or  not.  The  attempt  to  iden- 
tify Geoffrey's  unnamed  "  lady,"  which  he  was  determined  to 
make,  would  lead  him  to  Craig  Fernie,  and  would  no  doubt 
end  in  obliging  him  to  address  himself  to  Anne.  Blanche's  in- 
timate knowledge  of  her  friend  might  unquestionably  be  made 
useful  to  him  under  these  circumstances ;  and  Blanche's  dis- 
cretion was  to  be  trusted  in  any  matter  in  which  Miss  Silves- 
ter's interests  wei'e  concerned.  On  the  other  hand,  caution  was 
imperatively  necessary,  in  the  present  imperfect  state  of  his  in- 
formation— and  caution,  in  Sir  Patrick's  mind,  carried  the  day. 
He  decided  to  wait  and  see  what  came  first  of  his  investigation 
at  the  inn. 

"  Mr.  Delamayn  consulted  me  on  a  dry  point  of  law,  in  which 
a  friend  of  his  was  interested,"  said  Sir  Patrick.  "  You  have 
wasted  your  curiosity,  my  dear,  on  a  subject  totally  unworthy 
of  a  lady's  notice." 

Blanche's  penetration  was  not  to  be  deceived  on  such  easy 
terms  as  these.  "  Why  not  say  at  once  that  you  won't  tell 
me  ?"  she  rejoined.  "  Ybic  shutting  yourself  up  with  Mr,  Del- 
amayn to  talk  law  !  You  looking  absent  and  anxious  about  it 
afterward  !  I  am  a  very  unhappy  girl !"  said  Blanche,  with  a 
little  bitter  sigh.  "  There  is  something  in  me  that  seems  to 
repel  the  people  I  love.  Not  a  word  in  confidence  can  I  get 
from  Anne.  And  not  a  word  in  confidence  can  I  get  from 
you.  And  I  do  so  long  to  sympathize!  It's  very  hard.  I 
think  I  shall  go  to  Arnold." 

Sir  Patrick  took  his  niece's  hand. 

"  Stop  a  minute,  Blanche.  About  Miss  Silvester  ?  Have 
you  heard  from  her  to-day  ?" 

"  No.     I  am  more  unhappy  about  her  than  words  can  say." 

"  Suppose  somebody  went  to  Craig  Fernie  and  tried  to  find 
out  the  cause  of  Miss  Silvester's  silence  ?  Would  you  believe 
that  somebody  sympathized  with  you  then  ?" 

Blanche's  face  flushed  brightly  with  pleasure  and  surprise. 
She  raised  Sir  Patrick's  hand  gratefully  to  her  lips. 

"  Oh  !"  she  exclaimed.  "  You  don't  mean  that  you  would 
do  that  ?" 

"  I  am  certainly  the  last  person  who  ought  to  do  it — •seeing 
that  you  went  to  the  inn  in  flat  rebellion  against  ray  orders, 
and  that  I  only  forgave  yon,  on  your  own  promise  of  amend- 
ment, the  other  day.  It  is  a  miserably  weak  proceeding  on  the 
part  of  '  the  head  of  the  family '  to  be  turning  his  back  on  his 
own  principles,  because  his  niece  happens  to  be  anxious  and 
unhappy.  Still  (if  you  could  lend  me  your  little  carriage),  I 
might  take  a  surly  drive  toward  Craig  Fernie,  all  by  myself, 
and  I  might  stumble  against  Miss  Silvester — in  case  you  have 
any  thing  to  say." 


MAN    AND    WIFK.  215 

"Any  thing  to  say  ?"  repeated  Blanche,  She  put  her  arm 
round  her  uncle's  neck,  and  whispered  in  his  ear  one  oi  the 
most  interminable  messages  that  ever  was  sent  from  one  hu- 
man being  to  another.  Sir  Patrick  listened,  with  a  growing 
interest  in  the  inquiry  on  which  he  was  secretly  bent,  "  The 
woman  must  have  some  noble  qualities,"  he  thought,  "  who  can 
inspire  such  devotion  as  this." 

While  Blanche  was  whispering  to  her  uncle,  a  second  private 
conference — of  the  purely  domestic  sort — was  taking  place  be- 
tween Lady  Lundie  and  the  butler,  in  the  hall  outside  the  li- 
brary door. 

"  I  am  sorry  to  say,  my  lady,  Hester  Dethridge  has  broken 
out  again." 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?" 

"  She  was  all  right,  my  lady,  when  she  went  into  the  kitch- 
en-garden, some  time  since.  She's  taken  strange  again,  now 
she  has  come  back.  Wants  the  rest  of  the  day  to  herself,  your 
ladyship.  Says  she's  overworked,  with  all  the  company  in  the 
house — and,  I  must  say,  does  look  like  a  person  troubled  and 
worn  out  in  body  and  mind." 

"  Don't  talk  nonsense,  Roberts !  The  woman  is  obstinate 
and  idle  and  insolent.  She  is  now  in  the  house,  as  you  know, 
under  a  month's  notice  to  leave.  If  she  doesn't  choose  to  do 
her  duty  for  that  month,  I  shall  refuse  to  give  her  a  character. 
Who  is  to  cook  the  dinner  to-day  if  I  give  Hester  Dethridge 
leave  to  go  out  ?" 

"  Any  way,  my  lady,  I  am  afraid  the  kitchen-maid  will  have 
to  do  her  best  to-day.  Hester  is  very  obstinate,  when  the  fit 
takes  her — as  your  ladyship  says," 

"  If  Hester  Dethridge  leaves  the  kitchen-maid  to  cook  the 
dinner,  Roberts,  Hester  Dethridge  leaves  my  service  to-day, 
I  want  no  more  words  about  it.  If  she  persists  in  setting  my 
orders  at  defiance,  let  her  bring  her  account-book  into  the  li- 
brary, while  we  are  at  lunch,  and  lay  it  on  my  desk,  I  shall 
be  back  in  the  library  after  luncheon — and  if  I  see  the  account- 
book  I  shall  know  what  it  means.  In  that  case,  you  will  re- 
ceive my  directions  to  settle  with  her  and  send  her  away. 
Ring  the  luncheon-bell," 

The  luncheon-bell  rang.  The  guests  all  took  the  direction 
of  the  dining-room ;  Sir  Patrick  following,  from  the  far  end  of 
the  library,  with  Blanche  on  his  arm.  Arrived  at  the  dining- 
room  door,  Blanche  stopped,  and  asked  her  uncle  to  excuse  her 
if  she  left  him  to  go  in  by  himself 

"I  will  be  back  directly,"  she  said,  "I  have  forgotten 
something  up  stairs," 

Sir  Patrick  went  in.  The  dining-room  door  closed ;  and 
Blanche  returned  alone  to  the  library.     Now  on  one  pretense. 


216  MAN   AND   WIFE. 

and  now  on  another,  she  had,  for  three  days  past,  faithfully  ful 
filled  the  engagement  she  had  made  at  Craig  Fernie  to  wait 
ten  minutes  after  luncheon-time  in  the  library,  on  the  chance 
of  seeing  Anne.  On  this,  the  fourth  occasion,  the  faithful  girl 
sat  down  alone  in  the  great  room,  and  waited  with  her  eyes 
fixed  on  the  lawn  outside. 

Five  minutes  passed,  and  nothing  living  appeared  but  the 
birds  hopping  about  the  grass. 

In  less  than  a  minute  more  Blanche's  quick  ear  caught  the 
faint  sound  of  a  woman's  dress  brushing  over  the  lawn.  She 
ran  to  the  nearest  window,  looked  out,  and  clapj^ed  her  hands 
with  a  cry  of  delight.  There  was  the  well-known  figure,  rap- 
idly approaching  her!  Anne  was  true  to  their  friendship — 
Anne  had  kept  her  engagement  at  last ! 

Blanche  hurried  out,  and  drew  her  into  the  library  in  tri- 
umph. "This  makes  amends,  love,  for  every  thing  !  You  an- 
swer my  letter  in  the  best  of  all  ways — you  bring  me  your 
own  dear  self" 

She  placed  Anne  in  a  chair,  and,  lifting  her  veil,  saw  her 
plainly  in  the  brilliant  midday  light. 

The  change  in  the  whole  woman  was  nothing  less  than 
dreadful  to  the  loving  eyes  that  rested  on  her.  She  looked 
years  older  than  her  real  age.  There  was  a  dull  calm  in  her 
face,  a  stagnant,  stupefied  submission  to  any  thing,  pitiable  to 
see.  Three  days  and  nights  of  solitude  and  grief,  three  days 
and  nights  of  unresting  and  unpartakeu  suspense,  had  crushed 
that  sensitive  nature,  had  frozen  that  warm  heart.  The  ani- 
mating spirit  was  gone — the  mere  shell  of  the  woman  lived 
and  moved,  a  mockery  of  her  former  self 

"  Oh,  Anne !  Anne  !  What  can  have  happened  to  you  ? 
Are  you  frightened  ?  There's  not  the  least  fear  of  any  body 
disturbing  us.  They  are  all  at  luncheon,  and  the  servants  are 
at  dinner.  We  have  the  room  entirely  to  ourselves.  My  dar- 
ling !  you  look  so  faint  and  strange !  Let  me  get  you  some- 
thing." 

Anne  drew  Blanche's  head  down  and  kissed  her.  It  was 
done  in  a  dull,  slow  way — without  a  word,  without  a  tear, 
without  a  sigh. 

"  You're  tired — I'm  sure  you're  tired.  Have  you  walked 
here  ?     You  sha'n't  go  back  on  foot ;  I'll  take  care  of  that  ?" 

Anne  roused  herself  at  those  words.  She  spoke  for  the  first 
time.  The  tone  w^as  lower  than  was  natural  to  her;  sadder 
than  was  natural  to  her — but  the  charm  of  her  voice,  the  native 
gentleness  and  beauty  of  it,  seemed  to  have  survived  the  wreck 
of  all  besides. 

"I  don't  go  back,  Blanche.     I  have  left  the  inn.^ 

' '  Left  the  inn  ?     With  your  husband  ?" 


MAN    AND    WIFK.  217 

She  answered  the  first  question — not  the  second. 

"  I  can't  go  back,"  she  said.  "  The  inn  is  no  place  for  me. 
A  curse  seems  to  follow  me,  Blanche,  wherever  I  go.  I  am 
the  cause  of  quarreling  and  wretchedness,  without  meaning  it, 
God  knows.  The  old  man  who  is  head- waiter  at  the  inn  has 
been  kind  to  me,  my  dear,  in  his  way,  and  he  and  the  landlady 
had  hard  words  together  about  it.  A  quarrel,  a  shocking,  vio- 
lent quarrel.  He  has  lost  his  place  in  consequence.  The 
woman,  his  mistress,  lays  all  the  blame  of  it  to  my  door.  She 
is  a  hard  woman  ;  and  she  has  been  harder  than  ever  since 
Bishopriggs  went  away.  I  have  missed  a  letter  at  the  inn — I 
must  have  thrown  it  aside,  I  suppose,  and  forgotten  it.  I  only 
know  that  I  remembered  about  it,  and  couldn't  find  it  last 
night.  I  told  the  landlady,  and  she  fastened  a  quarrel  on  me 
almost  before  the  words  were  out  of  my  mouth.  Asked  me  if  I 
charged  her  with  stealing  my  letter.  Said  things  to  me — I 
can't  repeat  them.  I  am  not  very  well,  and  not  able. to  deal 
with  people  of  that  sort.  I  thought  it  best  to  leave  Craig 
Fernie  this  morning.  I  hope  and  pray  I  shall  never  see  Craig 
Fernie  again." 

She  told  her  little  story  Avith  a  total  absence  of  emotion  of 
any  sort,  and  laid  her  head  back  wearily  on  the  chair  when  it 
was  done. 

Blanche's  eyes  filled  with  tears  at  the  sight  of  her. 

"  I  won't  tease  you  with  questions,  Anne,"  she  said,  gently. 
"  Come  up  stairs  and  rest  in  my  room.  You're  not  fit  to  travel, 
love.     I'll  take  care  that  nobody  comes  near  us." 

The  stable-clock  at  Windygates  struck  the  quarter  to  two. 
Anne  raised  herself  in  the  chair  with  a  start. 

"  What  time  was  that  ?"  she  asked. 

Blanche  told  her. 

"I  can't  stay,"  she  said.  "I  have  come  here  to  find  some- 
thing out,  if  I  can.  You  won't  ask  me  questions  ?  Don't, 
Blanche,  don't !  for  the  sake  of  old  times." 

Blanche  turned  aside,  heart-sick.  "  I  Avill  do  nothing,  dear, 
to  annoy  you,"  she  said,  and  took  Anne's  hand,  and  hid  the 
tears  that  were  beginning  to  fall  over  her  cheeks. 

"  I  want  to  know  something,  Blanche.     Will  you  tell  me  ?" 

"Yes.     What  is  it?" 

"  Who  are  the  gentlemen  staying  in  the  house  ?" 

Blanche  looked  round  at  her  again,  in  sudden  astonishment 
and  alarm.  A  vague  fear  seized  her  that  Anne's  mind  had 
given  way  under  the  heavy  weight  of  trouble  laid  on  it.  Anne 
persisted  in  pi'essing  her  strange  request. 

"  Run  over  their  names,  Blanche.  I  have  a  reason  for  wish- 
ing to  know  who  the  gentlemen  are  who  are  staying  in  the 
house." 


218  MAN    AND   WIFE. 

Blanche  repeated  the  names  of  Lady  Lundie's  guests,  leay- 
ing  to  the  last  the  guests  who  had  arrived  last. 

"  Two  more  came  back  this  morning,"  she  went  on.  "Arnold 
Brinkworth  and  that  hateful  friend  of  his,  Mr,  Delamayn." 

Anne's  head  sank  back  once  more  on  the  chair.  She  had 
found  her  way,  without  exciting  suspicion  of  the  truth,  to  the 
one  discovery  which  she  had  come  to  Windygates  to  make. 
He  was  in  Scotland  again,  and  he  had  only  arrived  from  Lon- 
don that  morning.  There  w^as  barely  time  for  him  to  have 
communicated  with  Craig  Feruie  before  she  left  the  inn — he, 
too,  who  hated  letter-writing !  The  circumstances  were  all  in 
his  favor :  there  was  no  reason,  there  was  really  and  truly  no 
reason,  so  far,  to  believe  that  he  had  deserted  her.  The  heart 
of  the  unhappy  woman  bounded  in  her  bosom,  under  the  first 
ray  of  hope  that  had  warmed  it  for  four  days  past.  Under 
that  sudden  revulsion  of  feeling,  her  weakened  frame  shook 
from  head  to  foot.  Her  face  flushed  deep  for  a  moment — then 
turned  deadly  pale  again.  Blanche,  anxiously  watching  her, 
saw  the  serious  necessity  for  giving  some  restorative  to  her 
instantly. 

"  I  am  going  to  get  you  some  wine — you  will  faint,  Anne,  if 
you  don't  take  something.  I  shall  be  back  in  a  moment ;  and 
I  can  manage  it  without  any  body  being  the  wiser." 

She  pushed  Anne's  chair  close  to  the  nearest  open  window — 
a  window  at  the  upper  end  of  the  library — and  ran  out. 

Blanche  had  barely  left  the  room,  by  the  door  that  led  into 
the  hall,  when  Geofl"rey  entered  it  by  one  of  the  lower  windows 
opening  from  the  lawn. 

With  his  mind  absorbed  in  the  letter  that  he  was  about  to 
write,  he  slowly  advanced  up  the  room  toward  the  nearest 
table.  Anne,  hearing  the  sound  of  footsteps,  started,  and 
looked  round.  Her  failing  strength  rallied  in  an  instant,  un- 
der the  sudden  relief  of  seeing  him  again.  She  rose  and  ad- 
vanced  eagerly,  with  a  faint  tinge  of  color  in  her  cheeks.  He 
looked  up.     The  two  stood  face  to  face  together — alone. 

"  Geoffrey !" 

He  looked  at  her  without  answering — without  advancing  a 
step,  on  his  side.  There  Avas  an  evil  light  in  his  eyes;  his 
silence  was  the  brute  silence  that  threatens  dumbly.  He  had 
made  up  his  mind  never  to  see  her  again,  and  she  had  entrapped 
hira  into  an  interview.  He  had  made  up  his  mind  to  write, 
and  there  she  stood  forcing  him  to  speak.  The  sum  of  her  of- 
fenses against  him  was  now  complete.  If  there  had  ever  been 
the  faintest  hope  of  her  raising  even  a  passing  pity  in  his  heart, 
that  hope  would  have  been  annihilated  now. 

She  failed  to  understand  the  full  meaning  of  his  silence. 
She  made  her  excuses,  poor  soul,  for  venturing  back  to  Windy- 


MAN   AND   WIFE.  219 

gates — her  excuses  to  the  man  whose  purpose  at  that  moment 
was  to  throw  her  helpless  on  the  world. 

"  Pray  forgive  me  for  coming  here,"  she  said.  "  I  have  done 
nothing  to  compromise  you,  GeoftVey.  Nobody  but  Blanche 
knows  I  am  at  Windygates.  And  I  have  contrived  to  make 
my  inquiries  about  you  without  allowing  her  to  suspect  our 
secret."  She  stopped  and  began  to  tremble.  She  saw  some- 
thing more  in  his  face  than  she  had  read  in  it  at  first.  "  I  got 
your  letter,"  she  went  on,  rallying  her  sinking  courage.  "I 
don't  complain  of  its  being  so  short :  you  don't  like  letter- 
writing,  I  know.  But  you  promised  I  should  hear  from  you 
again.  And  I  have  never  heard.  And  oh,  Geoffrey,  it  was  so 
lonely  at  the  inn  !" 

She  stopped  again,  and  supported  herself  by  resting  her 
hand  on  the  table.  The  faintness  was  stealing  back  on  her. 
She  tried  to  go  on  again.  It  was  useless — she  could  only  look 
at  him  now. 

"  What  do  you  want  ?"  he  asked,  in  the  tone  of  a  man  who 
was  putting  an  unimportant  question  to  a  total  stranger. 

A  last  gleam  of  her  old  energy  flickered  up  in  her  face,  like 
a  dying  flame. 

"I  am  broken  by  what  I  have  gone  through,"  she  said. 
"  Don't  insult  me  by  making  me  remind  you  of  your  promise." 

"  What  promise  ?" 

"  For  shame,  Geoffrey  !  for  shame  !  Your  promise  to  marry 
me." 

"You  claim  my  promise  after  what  you  have  done  at  the 
inn  ?" 

She  steadied  herself  against  the  table  with  one  hand,  and 
put  the  other  hand  to  her  head.  Her  brain  was  giddy.  The 
effort  to  think  was  too  much  for  her.  She  said  to  herself, 
vacantly, "  The  inn  ?     What  did  I  do  at  the  inn  ?" 

"  I  have  had  a  lawyer's  advice,  mind  !  I  know  what  I  am 
talking  about." 

She  appeared  not  to  have  heard  him.  She  repeated  the 
words,  "  What  did  I  do  at  the  inn  ?"  and  gave  it  up  in  despair. 
Holding  by  the  table,  she  came  close  to  him  and  laid  her  hand 
on  his  arm. 

"  Do  you  refuse  to  marry  me  ?"  she  asked. 

He  saw  the  vile  opportunity,  and  said  the  vile  words. 

"  You're  married  already  to  Arnold  Brinkworth." 

Without  a  cry  to  warn  him,  without  an  effort  to  save  her- 
self, she  dropped  senseless  at  his  feet ;  as  her  mother  had 
dropped  at  his  father's  feet  in  the  by-gone  time. 

He  disentangled  himself  from  the  folds  of  her  dress.  "  Done  !" 
lie  said,  looking  down  at  her  as  she  lay  on  the  floor. 

As  the  word  fell  from  his  lips  he  was  startled  by  a  sound  in 


220  MAN    AND    WIFK. 

the  inner  part  of  the  house.  One  of  the  library  doors  had  not 
been  completely  closed.  Light  footsteps  were  audible,  advan- 
cing rapidly  across  the  hall. 

He  turned  and  fled,  leaving  the  library,  as  he  had  entered 
it,  by  the  open  window  at  the  lower  end  of  the  room. 


CHAPTER  THE  TWENTY-SECOND. 

GONE. 

Blanche  came  in,  with  a  glass  of  wine  in  her  hand,  and 
saw  the  swooning  woman  on  the  floor. 

She  was  alarmed,  but  not  surprised,  as  she  knelt  by  Anne 
and  raised  her  head.  Her  own  previous  observation  of  her 
friend  necessarily  prevented  her  from  being  at  any  loss  to  ac- 
count for  the  fainting  fit.  The  inevitable  delay  in  getting  the 
wine  was — naturally  to  her  mind — alone  to  blame  for  the  re- 
sult which  now  met  her  view. 

If  she  had  been  less  ready  in  thus  tracing  the  efiect  to  the 
cause,  she  might  have  gone  to  the  window  to  see  if  any  thing 
had  happened,  out-of-doors,  to  frighten  Anne  —  might  have 
seen  Geoffrey  before  he  had  time  to  turn  the  corner  of  the 
house  —  and,  making  that  one  discovery,  might  have  altered 
the  whole  course  of  events,  not  in  her  coming  life  only,  but  in 
the  coming  lives  of  others.  So  do  we  shape  our  own  desti- 
nies, blindfold.  So  do  we  hold  our  poor  little  tenure  of  happi- 
ness at  the  capricious  mercy  of  Chance.  It  is  surely  a  blessed 
delusion  which  persuades  us  that  we  are  the  highest  product 
of  the  great  scheme  of  creation,  and  sets  us  doubting  whether 
other  planets  are  inhabited,  because  other  planets  are  not  sur- 
rounded by  an  atmosphere  which  we  can  breathe ! 

After  trying  such  simple  remedies  as  were  within  her  reach, 
and  trying  them  without  success,  Blanche  became  seriously 
alarmed.  Anne  lay,  to  all  outward  appearance,  dead  in  her 
arms.  She  was  on  the  point  of  calling  for  help — come  M'hat 
might  of  the  discovery  which  would  ensue  —  when  the  door 
from  the  hall  opened  once  more,  and  Hester  Dethridge  entered 
the  room. 

The  cook  had  accepted  the  alternative  which  her  mistress's 
message  had  placed  before  her,  if  she  insisted  on  having  her 
own  time  at  her  own  sole  disposal  for  the  rest  of  that  day. 
Exactly  as  Lady  Lundie  had  desired,  she  intimated  her  resolu- 
tion to  carry  her  point  by  placing  her  account-book  on  the 
desk  in  the  library.  It  was  only  when  this  had  been  done 
that  Blanche  received  any  answer  to  her  entreaties  for  help. 


MAN    AND    WIFE.  223 

Slowly  and  deliberately  Hester  Dethridge  walked  up  to  the 
spot  where  the  young  girl  knelt  with  Anne's  head  on  her  bo- 
som, and  looked  at  the  two  without  a  trace  of  human  emotion 
in  her  stern  and  stony  face, 

"  Don't  you  see  what's  happened  ?"  cried  Blanche.  "Are 
you  alive  or  dead  ?  Oh,  Hester,  I  can't  bring  her  to  !  Look 
at  her  !  look  at  her !" 

Hester  Dethridge  looked  at  her,  and  shook  her  head.  Look- 
ed again,  thought  for  a  while,  and  wrote  on  her  slate.  Held 
out  the  slate  over  Anne's  body,  and  showed  what  she  had 
written : 

"  Who  has  done  it  ?" 

"  You  stupid  creature !"  said  Blanche.  "  Nobody  has  done 
it." 

The  eyes  of  Hester  Dethridge  steadily  read  the  worn  white 
face,  telling  its  own  tale  of  sorrow  mutely  on  Blanche's  breast. 
The  mind  of  Hester  Dethridge  steadily  looked  back  at  her 
own  knowledge  of  her  own  miserable  married  life.  She  again 
returned  to  writing  on  her  slate — again  showed  the  written 
words  to  Blanche. 

"Brought  to  it  by  a  man.  Let  her  be — and  God  will  take 
her." 

"  You  horrid  unfeeling  woman !  how  dare  you  write  such  an 
abominable  thing !"  With  this  natural  outburst  of  indigna- 
tion, Blanche  looked  back  at  Anne ;  and,  daunted  by  the  death- 
like persistency  of  the  swoon,  appealed  again  to  the  mercy  of 
the  immovable  woman  who  was  looking  down  at  hei'.  "  Oh, 
Hester  !  for  Heaven's  sake  help  me  !" 

The  cook  dropped  her  slate  at  her  side,  and  bent  her  head 
gravely  in  sign  that  she  submitted.  She  motioned  to  Blanche 
to  loosen  Anne's  dress,  and  then — kneeling  on  one  knee — took 
Anne  to  support  her  while  it  was  being  done. 

The  instant  Hester  Dethridge  touched  her,  the  swooning 
woman  gave  signs  of  life. 

A  faint  shudder  ran  through  her  from  head  to  foot — her 
eyelids  trembled  —  half  opened  for  a  moment  —  and  closed 
again.  As  they  closed,  a  low  sigh  fluttered  feebly  from  hei 
lips. 

Hester  Dethridge  put  her  back  in  Blanche's  arms — consid- 
ered a  little  with  herself — returned  to  writing  on  her  slate — 
and  held  out  the  written  words  once  more : 

"Shivered  when  I  touched  her.  That  means  I  have  been 
walking  over  her  grave." 

Blanche  turned  from  the  sight  of  the  slate,  and  from  the 
sight  of  the  woman,  in  horror.  "You  frighten  me!"  she  said. 
"  You  will  frighten  Aer,  if  she  sees  you.  I  don't  meaa  tc  ^f 
fend  you ;  but — leave  us,  please  leave  us." 


224  MAN   AND    WIFE. 

Hester  Dethridge  accepted  her  dismissal,  as  she  accepted 
every  thing  else.  She  bowed  her  head  in  sign  that  she  under- 
stood— looked  for  the  last  time  at  Anne — dropped  a  stiff  court- 
esy to  her  young  mistress — and  left  the  room. 

An  hour  later  the  butler  had  paid  her,  and  she  had  left  the 
house. 

Blanche  breathed  more  freely  when  she  found  herself  alone. 
She  could  feel  the  relief  now  of  seeing  Anne  revive. 

"Can  you  hear  me,  darling?"  she  whisj^ei'ed.  "Can  you 
let  me  leave  you  for  a  moment  ?" 

Anne's  eyes  slowly  opened  and  looked  round  her — in  that 
torment  and  terror  of  reviving  life  which  marks  the  awful  pro- 
test of  humanity  against  its  recall  to  existence  when  mortal 
mercy  has  dared  to  wake  it  in  the  arms  of  Death. 

Blanche  rested  Anne's  head  against  the  nearest  chair,  and 
ran  to  the  table  upon  which  she  had  placed  the  wine  on  enter- 
ing the  room. 

After  swallowing  the  first  few  drops  Anne  began  to  feel 
the  effect  of  the  stimulant.  Blanche  persisted  in  making  her 
empty  the  glass,  and  refrained  from  asking  or  answering  ques- 
tions until  her  recovery  under  the  influence  of  the  wine  was 
complete. 

"  You  have  over-exerted  yourself  this  morning,"  she  said,  as 
soon  as  it  seemed  safe  to  speak.  "  Nobody  has  seen  you,  dar- 
ling— nothing  has  happened.    Do  you  feel  like  yourself  again  ?" 

Anne  made  an  attempt  to  rise  and  leave  the  library;  Blanche 
placed  her  gently  in  the  chair,  and  went  on  : 

"  There  is  not  the  least  need  to  stir.  We  have  another 
quarter  of  an  hour  to  ourselves  before  any  body  is  at  all  likely 
to  disturb  us.  I  have  something  to  say,  Anne  —  a  little  pro- 
posal to  make.     Will  you  listen  to  me?" 

Anne  took  Blanche's  hand,  and  pressed  it  gratefully  to  her 
lips.     She  made  no  other  reply.     Blanche  proceeded : 

"I  won't  ask  any  questions,  my  dear — I  won't  attempt  to 
keep  you  here  against  your  will — I  won't  even  remind  you  of 
my  letter  yesterday.  But  I  can't  let  you  go,  Anne,  without 
having  my  mind  made  easy  about  you  in  some  way.  You  will 
relieve  all  my  anxiety,  if  you  will  do  one  thing — one  easy  thing, 
for  my  sake." 

"  What  is  it,  Blanche  ?" 

She  put  that  question  with  her  mind  far  away  from  the 
subject  before  her.  Blanche  was  too  eager  in  pursuit  of  her 
object  to  notice  the  absent  tone,  the  purely  mechanical  man- 
ner, in  which  Anne  had  spoken  to  her. 

"  I  want  you  to  consult  my  uncle,"  she  answered.  "  Sir 
Patrick  is  interested  in  you ;  Sir  Patrick  proposed  to  me  this 
very  day  to  go  and  see  you  at  the  inn.     He  is  the  wisest,  the 


MAN    AND    WIFE.  225 

kindest,  the  dearest  old  man  living — and  you  can  trust  him  as 
you  could  trust  nobody  else.  Will  you  take  my  uncle  into 
your  confidence,  and  be  guided  by  his  advice  ?" 

With  her  mind  still  far  away  from  the  subject,  Anne  looked 
out  absently  at  the  lawn,  and  made  no  answer. 

"  Come  !"  said  Blanche.  "  One  word  isn't  much  to  saj^  Is 
it  Yes  or  No  ?" 

Still  looking  out  on  the  lawn— still  thinking  of  something 
else — Anne  yielded,  and  said  "Yes." 

Blanche  was  enchanted.  "  How  well  I  must  have  managed 
it !"  she  thought.  "  This  is  what  my  uncle  means,  when  my 
uncle  talks  of '  putting  it  strongly.'  " 

She  bent  down  over  Anne,  and  gayly  patted  her  on  the 
shoulder. 

"  That's  the  wisest  '  Yes,'  darling,  you  ever  said  in  your  life. 
Wait  here — and  I'll  go  in  to  luncheon,  or  they  will  be  sending 
to  know  what  has  become  of  me.  Sir  Patrick  has  kept  ray 
place  for  me,  next  to  himself.  I  shall  contrive  to  tell  him 
what  I  want ;  and  he  will  contrive  (oh,  the  blessing  of  hav- 
ing to  do  with  a  clever  man ;  there  are  so  few  of  them  ! — he 
will  contrive  to  leave  the  table  before  the  rest,  without  ex- 
citing any  body's  suspicions.  Go  away  with  him  at  once  to 
the  summer-house  (we  have  been  at  the  summer-house  all  the 
morning;  nobody  will  go  back  to  it  now),  and  I  will  follow 
you  as  soon  as  I  have  satisfied  Lady  Lundie  by  eating  some 
lunch.  Nobody  will  be  any  the  wiser  but  our  three  selves. 
In  five  minutes  or  less  you  may  expect  Sir  Patrick.  Let  me 
go  !     We  haven't  a  moment  to  lose  !" 

Anne  held  her  back.  Anne's  attention  was  concentrated  on 
her  now. 

"  What  is  it  ?"  she  asked. 

"  Are  you  going  on  happily  with  Arnold,  Blanche  ?" 

"  Arnold  is  nicer  than  ever,  my  dear." 

"  Is  the  day  fixed  for  your  marriage  ?" 

"  The  day  will  be  ages  hence.  Not  till  we  are  back  in  tov/n, 
at  the  end  of  the  autumn.     Let  me  go,  Anne  !" 

"  Give  me  a  kiss,  Blanche." 

Blanche  kissed  her,  and  tried  to  release  her  hand.  Anne 
held  it  as  if  she  was  drowning,  as  if  her  life  depended  on  not 
letting  it  go. 

"  Will  you  always  love  me,  Blanche,  as  you  love  me  now  ?" 

"  How  can  you  ask  me  ?" 

"Zsaid  Yes  just  now.      You  say  Yes  too." 

Blanche  said  it.  Anne's  eyes  fastened  on  her  face,  with  one 
long,  yearning  look,  and  then  Anne's  hand  suddenly  dropped 
hers. 

She  ran  out  of  the  room,  more  agitated,  more  uneasy,  than 

15 


226  MAN   AND   WIFE. 

she  liked  to  confess  to  herself.  Never  had  she  felt  so  certain 
of  the  urgent  necessity  of  appealing  to  Sir  Patrick's  advice  as 
she  felt  at  that  moment. 

The  guests  were  still  safe  at  the  luncheon  -  table  when 
Blanche  entered  the  dining-room. 

Lady  Lundie  expressed  the  necessary  surprise,  in  the  prop- 
erly graduated  tone  of  reproof,  at  her  step-daughter's  want  of 
punctuality.  Blanche  made  her  apologies  with  the  most  ex- 
emplary humility.  She  glided  into  her  chair  by  her  uncle'g 
side,  and  took  the  first  thing  that  was  offered  to  her.  Sir  Pat- 
rick looked  at  his  niece,  and  found  himself  in  the  company  of 
a  model  young  English  Miss — and  marveled  inwardly  what  it 
might  mean. 

The  talk,  interrupted  for  the  moment  (topics,  Politics  and 
Sport — and  then,  when  a  change  was  wanted,  Sport  and  Poli- 
tics), was  resumed  again  all  round  the  table.  Under  cover  of 
the  conversation,  and  in  the  intervals  of  receiving  the  atten- 
tions of  the  gentlemen,  Blanche  whispered  to  Sir  Patrick, 
"Don't  start,  uncle.  Anne  is  in  the  library."  (Polite  Mr. 
Smith  offered  some  ham.  Gratefully  declined.)  "  Pray,  pray, 
pray  go  to  her:  she  is  waiting  to  see  you — she  is  in  dreadful 
trouble."  (Gallant  Mr,  Jones  proposed  fruit  tart  and  cream. 
Accepted  with  thanks.)  "  Take  her  to  the  summer-house :  Pll 
follow  you  when  I  get  the  chance.  And  manage  it  at  once, 
uncle,  if  you  love  me,  or  you  will  be  too  late." 

Before  Sir  Patrick  could  whisper  back  a  word  in  reply,  Lady 
Lundie,  cutting  a  cake  of  the  richest  Scottish  composition,  at 
the  other  end  of  the  table,  publicly  proclaimed  it  to  be  her 
"own  cake,"  and,  as  such,  offered  her  brother-in-law  a  slice. 
The  slice  exhibited  an  eruption  of  plums  and  sweetmeats,  over- 
laid by  a  perspiration  of  butter.  It  has  been  said  that  Sir  Pat- 
rick had  reached  the  age  of  seventy — it  is,  therefore,  needless 
to  add  that  he  politely  declined  to  commit  an  unprovoked  out- 
rage on  his  own  stomach. 

"My  cake!"  persisted  Lady  Lundie,  elevating  the  horrible 
composition  on  a  fork.     "  Won't  that  tempt  you  ?" 

Sir  Patrick  saw  his  way  to  slipping  out  of  the  room  under 
cover  of  a  compliment  to  his  sister-in-law.  Pie  summoned  his 
courtly  smile,  and  laid  his  hand  on  his  heart. 

"A  fallible  mortal,"  he  said,  "is  met  by  a  temptation  which 
he  can  not  possibly  resist.  If  he  is  a  wise  mortal,  also,  what 
does  he  do  ?" 

"He  eats  some  of  My  cake,"  said  the  prosaic  Lady  Lundie. 

"  No !"  said  Sir  Patrick,  with  a  look  of  unutterable  devotion  di- 
rected at  his  sister-in-law.  "  He  flies  temptation,  dear  lady — as 
I  do  now."   He  bowed,  and  escaped,  unsuspected,  from  the  room. 


MAN    AND    WIFE,  227 

Lady  Lundie  cast  down  her  eyes,  with  an  expression  of  vii- 
tuous  indulgeuce  for  human  frailty,  and  divided  Sir  Patrick's 
compliment  modestly  between  herself  and  her  cake. 

Well  aware  that  his  own  departure  from  the  table  would 
be  followed  in  a  few  minutes  by  the  rising  of  the  lady  of  the 
house,  Sir  Patrick  hurried  to  the  library  as  fast  as  his  lame 
foot  would  let  him.  Now  that  he  was  alone,  his  manner  be- 
came anxious,  and  his  face  looked  grave.  He  entered  the 
room. 

Not  a  sign  of  Anne  Silvester  was  to  be  seen  anywhere.  The 
library  was  a  perfect  solitude. 

"  Gone !"  said  Sir  Patrick.     "  This  looks  bad." 

After  a  moment's  reflection  he  went  back  into  the  hall  to 
get  his  hat.  It  was  possible  that  she  might  have  been  afraid 
of  discovery  if  she  staid  in  the  library,  and  that  she  might 
have  gone  on  to  the  summer-house  by  herself 

If  she  was  not  to  be  found  in  the  summer-house,  the  quieting 
of  Blanche's  mind  and  the  clearing  up  of  her  uncle's  suspicions 
alike  depended  on  discovering  the  place  in  which  Miss  Silves- 
ter had  taken  refuge.  In  this  case  time  would  be  of  impor- 
tance, and  the  capacity  of  making  the  most  of  it  would  be  a 
precious  capacity  at  starting.  Arriving  rapidly  at  these  con- 
clusions. Sir  Patrick  rang  the  bell  in  the  hall  which  communi- 
cated with  the  servants'  ofiices,  and  summoned  his  own  valet 
— a  person  of  tried  discretion  and  fidelity,  nearly  as  old  as 
himself 

"  Get  your  hat,  Duncan,"  he  said,  when  the  valet  appeared, 
"  and  come  out  with  me." 

Master  and  servant  set  forth  together  silently,  on  their  way 
through  the  grounds.  Arrived  within  sight  of  the  summer- 
house,  Sir  Patrick  ordered  Duncan  to  wait,  and  went  on  by 
himself. 

There  was  not  the  least  need  for  the  precaution  that  he  had 
taken.  The  summer-house  was  as  empty  as  the  library.  He 
stepped  out  again  and  looked  about  him.  Not  a  living  crea- 
ture was  visible.  Sir  Patrick  summoned  his  servant  to  join 
Mm. 

"Go  back  to  the  stables,  Duncan,"  he  said,  "and  say  that 
Miss  Lundie  lends  me  her  pony-carriage  to-day.  Let  it  be  got 
ready  at  once  and  kept  in  the  stable-yard.  I  want  to  attract 
as  little  notice  as  possible.  You  are  to  go  with  me,  and  no- 
body else.  Provide  yourself  with  a  railway  time-table.  Have 
you  got  anv  money?" 

"  Yes,  Sir  Patrick." 

"Did  you  happen  to  see  the  governess  (Miss  Silvester)  on 
the  day  when  we  came  here — the  day  of  the  lawn-party  ?" 


228  MAN    AND    WIFE. 

"  I  did,  Sir  Patrick." 

"  Should  you  know  her  again  ?" 

"  I  thought  her  a  very  distinguished-looking  person,  Sir  Pat- 
rick.    I  should  certainly  know  her  again." 

"Have  you  any  reason  to  think  she  noticed  you?" 

"  She  never  even  looked  at  me,  Sir  Patrick." 

"  Very  good.  Put  a  change  of  linen  into  your  bag,  Dun- 
can— I  may  possibly  want  you  to  take  a  journey  by  railway. 
Wait  for  me  in  the  stable-yard.  This  is  a  matter  in  which 
every  thing  is  trusted  to  my  discretion  and  to  yours." 

"Thank  you,  Sir  Patrick." 

With  that  acknowledgment  of  the  compliment  which  had 
been  just  paid  to  him,  Duncan  gravely  went  his  way  to  the 
stables ;  and  Duncan's  master  returned  to  the  summer-house, 
to  wait  there  until  he  was  joined  by  Blanche. 

Sir  Patrick  showed  signs  of  failing  patience  during  the  in- 
terval of  expectation  through  which  he  was  now  condemned 
to  pass.  He  applied  perpetually  to  the  snuff-box  in  the  knob 
of  his  cane.  He  fidgeted  incessantly  in  and  out  of  the  sum- 
mer-house. Anne's  disappearance  had  placed  a  serious  obsta- 
cle in  the  way  of  further  discovery  ;  and  there  was  no  attack- 
ing that  obstacle,  until  precious  time  had  been  wasted  in  wait- 
ing to  see  Blanche. 

At  last  she  appeared  in  view,  from  the  steps  of  the  summer- 
house;  breathless  and  eager,  hastening  to  the  place  of  meeting 
as  fast  as  her  feet  would  take  her  to  it. 

Sir  Patrick  considerately  advanced,  to  spare  her  the  shock 
of  making  the  inevitable  discovery.  "Blanche,"  he  said,  "try 
to  prepare  yourself,  my  dear,  for  a  disappointment.  I  am 
alone." 

"  You  don't  mean  that  you  have  let  her  go  ?" 

"  My  poor  child  !     I  have  never  seen  her  at  all." 

Blanche  pushed  by  him,  and  ran  into  the  summer-house. 
Sir  Patrick  followed  her.  She  came  out  again  to  meet  him, 
with  a  look  of  blank  despair.  "  Oh,  uncle  !  I  did  so  truly 
pity  her !     And  see  how  little  pity  she  has  for  meP'' 

Sir  Patrick  put  his  arm  round  his  niece,  and  softly  patted 
the  fair  young  head  that  dropped  on  his  shoulder. 

"Don't  let  us  judge  her  harshly,  my  dear;  we  don't  know 
what  serious  necessity  may  not  plead  her  excuse.  It  is  plain 
that  she  can  trust  nobody — and  that  she  only  consented  to  see 
me  to  get  you  out  of  the  room  and  spare  you  the  pain  of  part- 
ing. Compose  yourself,  Blanche.  I  don't  despair  of  discover- 
ing where  she  has  gone,  if  you  will  help  me." 

Blanche  lifted  her  head,  and  dried  her  tears  bravely. 

"  My  father  himself  wasn't  kinder  to  me  than  you  are,"  she 
said.     "  Only  tell  me,  uncle,  what  I  can  do !" 


MAN    AND    WIFE.  229 

"  I  want  to  hear  exactly  what  happened  in  the  library,"  said 
Sir  Patrick.  "  Forget  nothing,  my  dear  child,  no  matter  liow 
trifling  it  may  be.  Trifles  are  precious  to  us,  and  minutes  are 
precious  to  us,  now." 

Blanche  followed  her  instructions  to  the  letter,  her  uncle 
listening  with  the  closest  attention.  When  she  had  completed 
her  narrative,  Sir  Patrick  suggested  leaving  the  summer- 
house.  "  I  have  ordered  your  chaise,"  he  said ;  "  and  I  can 
tell  you  what  I  propose  doing  on  our  way  to  the  stable-yard." 

"  Let  me  drive  you,  uncle." 

"  Forgive  me,  my  dear,  for  saying  No  to  that.  Your  step- 
mother's suspicions  are  very  easily  excited — and  you  had  bet- 
ter not  be  seen  with  me  if  my  inquiries  take  me  to  the  Craig 
Fernie  inn.  I  promise,  if  you  will  remain  here,  to  tell  you  ev- 
ery thing  when  I  come  back.  Join  the  others  in  any  plan 
they  have  for  the  afternoon  —  and  you  will  prevent  my  ab- 
sence from  exciting  any  thing  more  than  a  passing  remark. 
You  will  do  as  I  tell  you  ?  That's  a  good  girl !  Now  you 
shall  hear  how  I  propose  to  search  for  this  poor  lady,  and  how 
your  little  story  has  helped  me." 

He  paused,  considering  with  himself  whether  he  should 
begin  by  telling  Blanche  of  his  consultation  with  Geoflfrey. 
Once  more  he  decided  that  question  in  the  negative.  Better 
to  still  defer  taking  her  into  his  confidence  until  he  had  per- 
formed the  errand  of  investigation  on  which  he  was  now  set- 
ting forth. 

"  What  you  have  told  me,  Blanche,  divides  itself,  in  my  mind, 
into  two  heads,"  began  Sir  Patrick.  "  There  is  what  happened 
in  the  library  before  your  own  eyes;  and  there  is  what  Miss 
Silvester  told  you  had  happened  at  the  inn.  As  to  the  event 
in  the  library  (in  the  first  place),  it  is  too  late  now  to  inquire 
whether  that  fainting-fit  was  the  result,  as  you  say,  of  mere  ex- 
haustion— or  whether  it  was  the  result  of  something  that  oc- 
curred while  you  were  out  of  the  room." 

"What  could  have  happened  while  I  was  out  of  the  room?" 

"  I  know  no  more  than  you  do,  my  dear.  It  is  simply  one  of 
the  possibilities  in  the  case,  and,  as  such,  I  notice  it.  To  get  on 
to  what  practically  concerns  us:  if  Miss  Silvester  is  in  delicate 
health  it  is  impossible  that  she  could  get,  unassisted,  to  any 
great  distance  from  Windygates.  She  may  have  taken  refuge 
in  one  of  the  cottages  in  our  immediate  neighborhood.  Or  she 
may  have  met  with  some  passing  vehicle  from  one  of  the  farms 
on  its  way  to  the  station,  and  may  have  asked  the  person  driv- 
ing to  give  her  a  seat  in  it.  Or  she  may  have  walked  as  far  as 
she  can,  and  may  have  stopped  to  rest  in  some  sheltered  place, 
among  the  lanes  to  the  south  of  this  house." 

"  I'll  inquire  at  the  cottages,  uncle,  while  you  are  gone." 


230  MAN    AND    WIFE. 

"My  dear  child,  there  xiiust  be  a  dozen  cottages,  at  least, 
within  a  circle  of  one  mile  from  Windygates !  Your  inquiries 
would  probably  occupy  you  for  the  whole  afternoon,  I  won't 
ask  what  Lady  Lundie  would  tliink  of  your  being  away  all 
that  time  by  yourself.  I  will  only  remind  you  of  two  things. 
You  would  be  making  a  public  matter  of  an  investigation 
which  it  is  essential  to  pursue  as  privately  as  possible;  and, 
even  if  you  happened  to  hit  on  the  right  cottage,  your  inquiries 
would  be  completely  baffled,  and  you  would  discover  nothing." 

"  Why  not  ?" 

"  I  know  the  Scottish  peasant  better  than  you  do,  Blanche. 
In  his  intelligence  and  his  sense  of  self-respect  he  is  a  very  dif- 
ferent being  from  the  English  peasant.  He  would  receive  you 
civilly,  because  you  are  a  young  lady ;  but  he  would  let  you 
see,  at  the  same  time,  that  he  considered  you  had  taken  advan- 
tage of  the  diiFerence  between  your  position  and  his  position  to 
commit  an  intrusion.  And  if  Miss  Silvester  had  appealed,  in 
confidence,  to  his  hospitality,  and  if  he  had  granted  it,  no  pow- 
er on  earth  would  induce  him  to  tell  any  person  living  that 
she  was  under  his  roof — without  her  express  permission." 

"  But,  uncle,  if  it's  of  no  use  making  inquiries  of  any  body, 
how  are  we  to  find  her  ?" 

"  I  don't  say  that  nobody  will  answer  our  inquiries,  my  dear 
— I  only  say  the  peasantry  won't  answer  them,  if  your  friend 
has  trusted  herself  to  their  protection.  The  way  to  find  her  is 
to  look  on,  beyond  what  Miss  Silvester  may  be  doing  at  the 
present  moment,  to  what  Miss  Silvester  contemplates  doing — 
let  us  say,  before  the  day  is  out.  We  may  assume,  I  think  (af- 
ter what  has  happened),  that,  as  soon  as  she  can  leave  this 
neighborhood,  she  assuredly  will  leave  it.  Do  vou  agree,  so 
far?" 

"  Yes  !  yes  !     Go  on." 

"  Very  well.  She  is  a  woman,  and  she  is  (to  say  the  least 
of  it)  not  strong.  She  can  only  leave  this  neighborhood  either 
by  hiring  a  vehicle  or  by  traveling  on  the  railway.  I  propose 
going  first  to  the  station.  At  the  rate  at  which  your  pony 
gets  over  the  ground,  there  is  a  fair  chance,  in  spite  of  the  time 
we  have  lost,  of  my  being  there  as  soon  as  she  is— assuming 
that  she  leaves  by  the  first  train,  up  or  down,  that  })asses." 

"  There  is  a  train  in  half  an  hour,  uncle.  She  can  never  get 
there  in  time  for  that." 

"  She  may  be  less  exhausted  than  we  think ;  or  she  may  get 
a  lift ;  or  she  may  not  be  alone.  How  do  we  know  but  some- 
body may  have  been  waiting  in  the  lane — her  husband,  if  there 
is  such  a  person — to  help  her?  No!  I  shall  assume  she  is 
now  on  her  way  to  the  station ;  and  I  shall  get  there  as  fast 
as  possible — " 


MAN    AND    WIFE.  231 

"And  stop  her,  if  you  tinJ  her  there?" 

"  What  I  do,  Blanche,  must  be  left  to  my  discretion.  If  I 
find  her  there,  I  must  act  for  the  best.  If  I  don't  find  her 
there,  I  shall  leave  Duncan  (who  goes  with  me)  on  the  watch 
for  the  remaining  trains,  until  the  last  to-night.  He  knows 
Miss  Silvester  by  sight,  and  he  is  sure  that  she  has  never  no- 
ticed him.  Whether  she  goes  north  or  south,  early  or  late, 
Duncan  will  have  my  orders  to  follow  her.  He  is  thorough- 
ly to  be  relied  on.  If  she  takes  the  railway,  I  answer  for  it 
we  shall  know  where  she  goes." 

"  How  clever  of  you  to  think  of  Duncan  !" 

"  Not  in  the  least,  my  dear.  Duncan  is  my  factotum ;  and 
the  course  I  am  taking  is  the  obvious  course  which  would  have 
occurred  to  any  body.  Let  us  get  to  the  really  difficult  part 
of  it  now.     Suppose  she  hires  a  carriage  ?" 

"  There  are  none  to  be  had,  except  at  the  station." 

"There  are  farmers  about  here, and  farmers  have  light  carts, 
or  chaises,  or  something  of  the  sort.  It  is  in  the  last  degree 
unlikely  that  they  would  consent  to  let  her  have  them.  Still, 
women  break  through  difficulties  which  stop  men.  And  this 
is  a  clever  woman,  Blanche — a  woman,  you  may  depend  on  it, 
who  is  bent  on  preventing  you  from  tracing  her.  I  confess  I 
wish  we  had  somebody  we  could  trust  lounging  about  where 
those  two  roads  branch  off  from  the  road  that  leads  to  the  rail- 
way.    I  must  go  in  another  direction ;  Z  can't  do  it." 

"'Arnold  can  do  it !" 

Sir  Patrick  looked  a  little  doubtful.  "Arnold  is  an  excellent 
fellow,"  he  said.     "  But  can  we  trust  to  his  discretion  ?" 

"He  is,  next  to  you,  the  most  perfectly  discreet  person  I 
know,"  rejoined  Blanche,  in  a  very  positive  manner;  "and, 
what  is  more,  I  have  told  him  every  thing  about  Annie,  except 
what  has  happened  to-day.  I  am  afraid  I  shall  tell  him  that, 
when  I  feel  lonely  and  miserable,  after  you  have  gone.  There 
is  something  in  Arnold — I  don't  know  what  it  is — that  com- 
forts me.  Besides,  do  you  think  he  would  betray  a  secret  that 
I  gave  him  to  keep?  You  don't  know  how  devoted  he  is  to 
me !" 

"  My  dear  Blanche,  I  am  not  the  cherished  object  of  his  de- 
votion ;  of  course  I  don't  know !  You  are  the  only  authority 
on  that  point.  I  stand  corrected.  Let  us  have  Arnold  by  all 
means.  Caution  him  to  be  careful ;  and  send  him  out  by  him- 
self, where  the  roads  meet.  We  have  now  only  one  other  place 
left  in  which  there  is  a  chance  of  finding  a  trace  of  her.  I  un- 
dertake to  make  the  necessary  investigation  at  the  Craig  Fernie 
inn."  I 

"  The  Craig  Fernie  inn  ?  Uncle  !  you  have  forgotten  what 
I  told  you." 


232  MAN    AISTD   WIFE. 

"  Wait  a  little,  my  dear.  Miss  Silvester  herself  has  left  the 
inn,  I  grant  you.  But  (if  we  should  unhappily  fail  in  finding 
her  by  any  other  means)  Miss  Silvester  has  left  a  trace  to  guide 
us  at  Craig  Fernie.  That  trace  must  be  picked  up  at  once, 
in  case  of  accidents.  You  don't  seem  to  follow  me  ?  I  am 
getting  over  the  ground  as  fast  as  the  pony  gets  over  it.  I 
have  arrived  at  the  second  of  those  two  heads  into  which  your 
story  divides  itself  in  my  mind.  What  did  Miss  Silvester  tell 
you  had  happened  at  the  inn  ?" 

"  She  lost  a  letter  at  the  inn." 

"  Exactly.  She  lost  a  letter  at  the  inn  ;  that  is  one  event. 
And  Bishopriggs,  the  Avaiter,  has  quarreled  with  Mrs.  Inch- 
bare,  and  has  left  his  situation  ;  that  is  another  event.  As  to 
the  letter  first.  It  is  either  really  lost,  or  it  has  been  stolen. 
In  either  case,  if  we  can  lay  our  hands  on  it,  there  is  at  least  a 
chance  of  its  helping  us  to  discover  something.  As  to  Bish- 
opriggs, next — " 

"You're  not  going  to  talk  about  the  waiter,  surely?" 

"  I  am  !  Bishopriggs  possesses  two  important  merits.  He  is  a 
link  in  my  chain  of  reasoning,  and  he  is  an  old  friend  of  mine." 

"A  friend  of  yours?" 

"  We  live  in  days,  my  dear,  when  one  workman  talks  of  an- 
other workman  as  '  that  gentleman.'  I  march  with  the  age, 
and  feel  bound  to  mention  my  clerk  as  my  friend.  A  few 
years  since  Bishopriggs  was  employed  in  the  clerks'  room  at 
my  chambers.  He  is  one  of  the  most  intelligent  and  most  un- 
scrupulous old  vagabonds  in  Scotland ;  perfectly  honest  as  to 
all  average  matters  involving  pounds,  shillings,  and  pence ;  per- 
fectly unprincipled  in  the  pursuit  of  his  own  interests,  where 
the  violation  of  a  trust  lies  on  the  boundary-line  which  marks 
the  limit  of  the  law.  I  made  two  unpleasant  discoveries  when 
I  had  him  in  my  employment.  I  found  that  he  had  contrived 
to  supply  himself  with  a  duplicate  of  my  seal ;  and  I  had  the 
strongest  reason  to  suspect  him  of  tampering  with  some  papers 
belonging  to  two  of  my  clients.  He  had  done  no  actual  mis- 
chief, so  far ;  and  I  had  no  time  to  waste  in  making  out  the  nec- 
essary case  against  him.  He  was  dismissed  from  my  service, 
as  a  man  who  was  not  to  be  trusted  to  respect  any  letters  or 
papers  that  happened  to  pass  through  his  hands." 

"  I  see,  uncle  !     I  see  !" 

"  Plain  enough  now — isn't  it  ?  If  that  missing  letter  of  Miss 
Silvestei''s  is  a  letter  of  no  importance,  I  am  inclined  to  believe 
that  it  is  merely  lost,  and  may  be  found  again.  If,  on  the  oth- 
er hand,  there  is  any  thing  in  it  that  could  promise  the  most 
remote  advantage  to  any  person  in  possession  of  it,  then,  in 
the  execrable  slang  of  the  day,  I  will  lay  any  odds,  Blanche, 
that  Bishopriggs  has  got  the  letter !" 


MAN    AND    WIFE.  233 

"And  he  has  left  the  inn  !     How  unfortunate  !" 

"  Unfortunate  as  causing  delay — nothing  worse  than  that. 
Unless  I  am  very  much  mistaken,  Bishopriggs  will  come  back 
to  the  inn.  The  old  rascal  (there  is  no  denying  it)  is  a  most 
amusing  person.  He  left  a  terrible  blank  when  he  left  my 
clerks'*  room.  Old  customers  at  Craig  Fernie  (especially  the 
English),  in  missing  Bishopriggs,  will,  you  may  rely  on  it, 
miss  one  of  the  attractions  of  the  inn.  Mrs.  Inchbare  is  not  a 
woman  to  let  her  dignity  stand  in  the  way  of  her  business. 
She  and  Bishopriggs  will  come  together  again,  sooner  or  later, 
and  make  it  up.  When  I  have  put  certain  questions  to  her, 
which  may  possibly  lead  to  very  important  results,  I  shall 
leave  a  letter  for  Bishopriggs  in  Mrs.  Inchbare's  hands.  The 
letter  will  tell  him  I  have  something  for  him  to  do,  and  will 
contain  an  address  at  which  he  can  write  to  me.  I  shall  hear 
of  him,  Blanche ;  and,  if  the  letter  is  in  his  possession,  I  shall 
get  it." 

"  Won't  he  be  afraid — if  he  has  stolen  the  letter — to  tell  you 
he  has  got  it  ?" 

"  Very  well  put,  my  child.  He  might  hesitate  with  other 
people.  But  I  have  my  own  way  of  dealing  with  him  ;  and  I 
know  how  to  make  him  tell  Me. — Enough  of  Bishopriggs  till 
his  time  comes.  There  is  one  other  point,  in  regard  to  Miss 
Silvester.  I  may  have  to  describe  her.  How  was  she  dressed 
when  she  came  here?  Kemember,  I  am  a  man  —  and  (if  an 
Englishwoman's  dress  can  be  described  in  an  Englishwoman's 
language)  tell  me,  in  English,  what  she  had  on." 

"She  wore  a  straw  hat,  with  corn-flowers  in  it,  and  a  white 
veil.  Corn-flowers  at  one  side,  uncle,  which  is  less  common 
than  corn-flowers  in  front.  And  she  had  on  a  light  gray  shawl, 
and  a  Pique — " 

"  There  you  go  with  your  French  !  Not  a  word  more  !  A 
straw  hat,  with  a  white  veil,  and  with  corn-flowers  at  one  side 
of  the  hat.  And  a  light  gray  shawl.  That's  as  much  as  the 
ordinar}'  male  mind  can  take  in  ;  and  that  will  do.  I  have  got 
my  instructions,  and  saved  precious  time.  So  far  —  so  good. 
Here  we  are  at  the  end  of  our  conference — in  other  words,  at 
the  gate  of  the  stable-yard.  You  understand  what  you  have 
to  do  while  I  am  away  ?" 

"  I  have  to  send  Arnold  to  the  cross-roads.  And  I  have  to 
behave  (if  I  can)  as  if  nothing  had  happened." 

"Good  child  !  Well  put  again  !  You  have  got  what  I  call 
grasp  of  mind,  Blanche.  An  invaluable  faculty  !  You  will 
govern  the  future  domestic  kingdom.  Arnold  will  be  nothing 
but  a  constitutional  husband.  Those  are  the  only  husbands 
who  are  thoroughly  happy.  You  shall  hear  every  thing,  my 
love,  when   I  come   back,      Got  your  bag,  Duncan  ?      Good. 


234  MAN    AND    WIFK. 

And  tne  time-table?  Good.  You  take  the  reins — I  won't 
drive.  I  want  to  think.  Driving  is  incompatible  with  intel- 
lectual exertion.  A  man  jDuts  his  mind  into  his  horse,  anc' 
sinks  to  the  level  of  that  useful  animal — as  a  necessary  condi- 
tion of  getting  to  his  destination  without  being  upset.  God 
blesB  you,  Blanche  !    To  the  station,  Duncan  !  to  the  station !" 


CHAPTER  THE  TWENTY-THIRD. 

TRACED. 

The  chaise  rattled  out  through  the  gates.  The  dogs  barked 
furiously.  Sir  Patrick  looked  round,  and  waved  his  hand  as 
he  turned  tbe  corner  of  the  road.  Blanche  was  left  alone  in 
the  yard. 

She  lingered  a  little,  absently  patting  the  dogs.  They  had 
especial  claims  on  her  sympathy  at  that  moment ;  they,  too, 
evidently  thought  it  hard  to  be  left  behind  at  the  house.  Af- 
ter a  while  she  roused  herself.  Sir  Patrick  had  left  the  respon- 
sibility of  superintending  the  cross-roads  on  her  shoulders. 
There  was  something  to  be  done  yet  before  the  arrangements 
for  tracing  Anne  were  complete.  Blanche  left  the  yard  to 
do  it. 

On  her  way  back  to  the  house  she  met  Arnold,  disj^atched 
by  Lady  Lundie  in  search  of  her. 

The  plan  of  occupation  for  the  afternoon  had  been  settled 
during  Blanche's  absence.  Some  demon  had  whis^^ered  to 
Lady  Lundie  to  cultivate  a  taste  for  feudal  antiquities,  and  to 
insist  on  spreading  that  taste  among  her  guests.  She  had  pro- 
posed an  excursion  to  an  old  baronial  castle  among  the  hills — 
far  to  the  westward  (fortunately  for  Sir  Patrick's  chance  of 
escaping  discovery)  of  the  hills  at  Craig  Fernie.  Some  of  the 
guests  were  to  ride,  and  some  to  accompany  their  hostess  in 
the  open  carriage.  Looking  right  and  left  for  proselytes,  Lady 
Lundie  had  necessarily  remarked  the  disappearance  of  certain 
members  of  her  circle.  Mr.  Delamayn  had  vanished,  nobody 
knew  where.  Sir  Patrick  and  Blanche  had  followed  his  exam- 
ple. Her  ladyship  had  observed,  upon  this,  with  some  asperi- 
ty, that  if  they  were  all  to  treat  each  other  in  that  unceremo- 
nious manner,  the  sooner  Windygates  was  turned  into  a  Peni- 
tentiary, on  the  silent  system,  the  fitter  the  house  would  be  for 
the  people  who  inhabited  it.  Under  these  cii-cumstances,  Ar- 
nold suggested  that  Blanche  would  do  well  to  make  her  ex- 
cuses as  soon  as  possible  at  head-quarters,  and  accept  the  seat 
in  *^he   carriage   which   her  step-mother  wished  her  to  take. 


MAN    AND    WIFE.  235 

"We  are  in  for  the  feudal  antiquities,  Blanche;  and  we  must 
help  each  other  through  as  well  as  we  can.  If  you  will  go  in 
the  carriage,  I''ll  go  too." 

Blanche  shook  her  head. 

"  There  are  serious  reasons  for  my  keeping  up  appearances," 
she  said.  "  I  shall  go  in  the  carriage.  You  mustn't  go  at 
all." 

Arnold  naturally  looked  a  little  surprised,  and  asked  to  be 
favored  with  an  explanation. 

Blanche  took  his  arm  and  hugged  it  close.  Now  that  Anne 
was  lost,  Arnold  was  more  precious  to  her  than  ever.  She  lit- 
erally hungered  to  hear  at  that  moment,  from  his  own  lips,  how 
fond  he  was  of  her.  It  mattered  nothing  that  she  was  already 
perfectly  satisfied  on  this  point.  It  was  so  nice  (after  he  had 
said  it  five  hundred  times  already)  to  make  him  say  it  once 
more  ! 

"  Suppose  I  had  no  explanation  to  give  ?"  she  said.  "  Would 
you  stay  behind  by  yourself  to  please  me.^" 

"  I  would  do  any  thing  to  please  you !" 

"Do  you  really  love  me  as  much  as  that?" 

They  were  still  in  the  yard ;  and  the  only  witnesses  present 
were  the  dogs.  Arnold  answered  in  the  language  without 
words — which  is  nevertheless  the  most  expressive  language  in 
use  between  men  and  women  all  over  the  world. 

"  This  is  not  doing  my  duty,"  said  Blanche,  penitently. 
"  But  oh,  Arnold,  I  am  so  anxious  and  so  miserable !  And  it 
is  such  a  consolation  to  know  that  you  won't  turn  your  back 
on  me  too !" 

With  that  preface  she  told  him  what  had  happened  in  the 
library.  Even  Blanche's  estimate  of  her  lover's  capacity  for 
sympathizing  with  her  was  more  than  realized  by  the  effect 
which  her  narrative  produced  on  Arnold.  He  was  not  merely 
surprised  and  sorry  for  her.  His  face  showed  plainly  that  he 
felt  genixine  concern  and  distress.  He  had  never  stood  higher 
in  Blanche's  opinion  than  he  stood  at  that  moment. 

"  What  is  to  be  done  ?"  he  asked.  "  How  does  Sir  Patrick 
propose  to  find  her  ?" 

Blanche  repeated  Sir  Patrick's  instructions  relating  to  the 
cross-roads,  and  also  to  the  serious  necessity  of  pursuing  the 
investigation  in  the  strictest  privacy.  Arnold  (relieved  from 
all  fear  of  being  sent  back  to  Craig  Fernie)  undertook  to  do 
every  thing  that  was  asked  of  him,  and  promised  to  keep  the 
secret  from  every  body. 

They  went  back  to  the  house,  and  met  with  an  icy  welcome 
from  Lady  Lundie.  Her  ladyship  repeated  her  remark  on  the 
subject  of  turning  Windygates  into  a  Penitentiary  for  Blanche's 
benefit.     She  received  Arnold's  petition  to  be  excused  from 


236  MAN    AND    WIFE, 

going  to  see  the  castle  with  the  barest  civility.  "  Oh,  take 
your  walk  by  all  means !  You  may  meet  your  friend,  Mr. 
Delamayn — who  appears  to  have  such  a  passion  foi*  walking 
that  he  can't  even  wait  till  luncheon  is  over.  As  for  Sir  Par- 
rick —  Oh  !  Sir  Patrick  has  borrowed  the  pony-carriage  ?  and 
gone  out  driving  by  himself? — I'm  sure  I  never  meant  to  of- 
fend my  brother-in-law  when  I  offered  him  a  slice  of  my  poor 
little  cake.  Don't  let  me  offend  any  body  else.  Dispose  of 
your  afternoon,  Blanche,  without  the  slightest  reference  to  me. 
Nobody  seems  inclined  to  visit  the  ruins — the  most  interesting 
relic  of  feudal  times  i.i  Perthshire,  Mr.  Brinkworth.  It  doesn't 
matter — oh,  dear  me,  it  doesn't  matter !  I  can't  force  my 
guests  to  feel  an  intelligent  curiosity  on  the  subject  of  Scottish 
Antiquities.  No!  no!  ray  dear  Blanche!  —  it  won't  be  the 
first  time,  or  the  last,  that  I  have  driven  out  alone.  I  don't  at 
all  object  to  being  alone.  '  My  mind  to  me  a  kingdom  is,'  as 
the  poet  says."  So  Lady  Lundie's  outraged  self-importance 
asserted  its  violated  claims  on  human  respect,  until  her  distin- 
guished medical  guest  came  to  the  rescue  and  smoothed  his 
hostess's  ruffled  plumes.  The  surgeon  (he  privately  detested 
ruins)  begged  to  go.  Blanche  begged  to  go.  Smith  and 
Jones  (profoundly  interested  in  feudal  antiquities)  said  they 
would  sit  behind,  in  the  "  rumble  " — rather  than  miss  this  un- 
expected treat.  One,  Two,  and  Three  caught  the  infection, 
and  volunteered  to  be  the  escort  on  horseback.  Lady  Lun- 
die's celebrated  "  smile  "  (warranted  to  remain  unaltered  on  her 
foce  for  hours  together)  made  its  appearance  once  more.  She 
issued  her  orders  with  the  most  charming  amiability.  "  We'll 
take  the  guide-book,"  said  her  ladyship,  with  the  eye  to  mean 
economy,  which  is  only  to  be  met  wath  in  very  rich  people, 
"  and  save  a  shilling  to  the  man  who  shows  the  ruins."  With 
that  she  went  up  stairs  to  array  herself  for  the  drive ;  and 
looked  in  the  glass  ;  and  saw  a  perfectly  virtuous,  fascinating, 
and  accomplished  Moman,  facing  her  irresistibly  in  a  new 
French  bonnet ! 

At  a  private  signal  from  Blanche,  Arnold  slipped  out  and 
repaired  to  his  post,  where  the  roads  crossed  the  road  that  led 
to  the  railway. 

There  w^as  a  space  of  open  heath  on  one  side  of  him,  and  the 
stone-wall  and  gates  of  a  farm-house  inclosure  on  the  other. 
Arnold  sat  down  on  the  soft  heather  —  and  lit  a  cigar — and 
tried  to  see  his  way  through  the  double  mystery  of  Anne's  ap- 
pearance and  Anne's  flight. 

He  had  interpreted  his  fiiend's  absence  exactly  as  his  friend 
had  anticipated  :  he  could  only  assume  that  Geoffrey  had  gone 
to  keep  a  private  appointment  with  Anne.  Miss  Silvester's  ap- 
pearance at  Windygatcs  alone,  and  Miss  Silvester's  anxiety  to 


MAN    AXD    WIFE.  23Y 

hear  the  names  of  the  gentlemen  who  \ve\*e  staying  in  the 
house,  seemed,  under  these  circumstances,  to  point  to  the  plain 
conclusion  that  the  two  had  in  some  way  unfortunately  missed 
each  other.  But  what  could  be  the  motive  of  her  flight  ? 
Whether  she  knew  of  some  other  place  in  which  she  might 
meet  Geoffrey  ?  or  whether  she  had  gone  back  to  the  inn  ?  or 
whether  she  had  acted  under  some  sudden  impulse  of  despair? 
— were  questions  which  Arnold  was  necessarily  quite  incom- 
petent to  solve.  There  was  no  choice  but  to  wait  until  an  op- 
portunity offered  of  reporting  what  had  happened  to  Geoffrey 
himself. 

After  the  lapse  of  half  an  hour,  the  sound  of  some  approach- 
ing vehicle — the  first  sound  of  the  sort  that  he  had  heard — at- 
tracted Arnold's  attention.  He  started  up,  and  saw  the  pony- 
chaise  approaching  him  along  the  road  from  the  station.  Sir 
Patrick,  this  time,  was  compelled  to  drive  himself — Duncan 
was  not  with  him.  On  discovering  Arnold,  he  stopped  the 
pony. 

"So!  so!"  said  the  old  gentleman.  "You  have  heard  all 
about  it,  I  see  ?  You  understand  that  this  is  to  be  a  secret 
from  every  body,  till  further  notice  ?  Very  good.  Has  any 
thing  happened  since  you  have  been  here?" 

"Nothing.     Have  you  made  any  discoveries,  Sir  Patrick?" 

"  None.  I  got  to  the  station  before  the  train.  No  signs  of 
Miss  Silvester  anywhere.  I  have  left  Duncan  on  the  watch — 
with  ordei's  not  to  stir  till  the  last  train  has  passed  to-night." 

"I  don't  think  she  will  turn  up  at  the  station,"  said  Arnold. 
"  I  fancy  she  has  gone  back  to  Craig  Fernie." 

"  Quite  possible.  I  am  now  on  my  way  to  Craig  Fernie,  to 
make  inquiries  about  her.  I  don't  know  how  long  I  may  be 
detained,  or  what  it  may  lead  to.  If  you  see  Blanche  before  I 
do,  tell  her  I  have  instructed  the  station-master  to  let  me  know 
(if  Miss  Silvester  does  take  the  railway)  what  place  she  books 
for.  Thanks  to  that  arrangement,  we  sha'n't  have  to  wait  for 
news  till  Duncan  can  telegraph  that  he  has  seen  her  to  her 
journey's  end.  In  the  mean  time,  you  understand  what  you 
are  wanted  to  do  here  ?" 

"  Blanche  has  explained  every  thing  to  me." 

"  Stick  to  your  post,  and  make  good  use  of  your  eyes.  You 
were  accustomed  to  that,  you  know,  when  you  were  at  sea. 
It's  no  great  hardship  to  pass  a  few  hours  in  this  delicious 
summer  air.  I  see  you  have  contracted  the  vile  modern  habit 
of  smoking — that  will  be  occupation  enough  to  amuse  you,  no 
doubt!  Keep  the  roads  in  view;  and,  if  she  does  come  your 
way,  don't  attempt  to  stop  her — you  can't  do  that.  Speak  to 
her  (quite  innocently,  mind  !),  by  way  of  getting  time  enough 
to  notice  the  face  of  the  man  who  is  driving  her,  and  the  name 


238  MAN   AND    WIFE. 

(if  there  is  one)  on  his  cart.  Do  that,  and  you  will  do  enough. 
Pah  !  how  that  cigar  poisons  the  air!  What  will  have  become 
of  your  stomach  when  you  get  to  my  age  ?" 

"  I  sha'n't  complain,  Sir  Patrick,  if  I  can  eat  as  good  a 
dinner  as  you  do." 

"  That  reminds  me  !  I  met  somebody  I  knew  at  the  station. 
Hester  Dethridge  has  left  her  place,  and  gone  to  London  by 
the  train.  We  may  feed  at  Windygates — we  have  done  with 
dining  now.  It  has  been  a  final  quarrel  this  time  between  the 
mistress  and  the  cook.  I  have  given  Hester  my  address  in 
London,  and  told  her  to  let  me  know  before  she  decides  on  an- 
other place.  A  woman  who  can''t  talk  and  a  woman  who  can 
cook,  is  simply  a  woman  who  has  arrived  at  absolute  perfec- 
tion. Such  a  treasure  shall  not  go  out  of  the  family,  if  I  can 
help  it.  Did  you  notice  the  Bechamel  sauce  at  lunch  ?  Pooh  ! 
a  young  man  who  smokes  cigars  doesn't  know  the  difference 
between  Bechamel  sauce  and  melted  butter.  Good  afternoon  ! 
good  afternoon  !" 

He  slackened  the  reins,  and  away  he  went  to  Craig  Fernie. 
Counting  by  years,  the  pony  was  twenty,  and  the  pony's  driver 
was  seventy.  Counting  by  vivacity  and  spirit,  two  of  the 
most  youthful  characters  in  Scotland  had  got  together  that 
afternoon  in  the  same  chaise. 

An  hour  more  wore  itself  slowly  out ;  and  nothing  had  pass- 
ed Arnold  on  the  cross-roads  but  a  few  stray  foot-passengers,  a 
heavy  wagon,  and  a  gig  with  an  old  woman  in  it.  He  rose 
again  from  the  heather,  weary  of  inaction,  and  resolved  to 
walk  backward  and  forward,  within  view  of  his  post,  for  a 
change.  At  the  second  turn,  when  his  face  happened  to  be 
set  toward  the  open  heath,  he  noticed  another  foot-passenger 
— apparently  a  man — far  away  in  the  empty  distance.  Was 
the  person  coming  toward  him  ? 

He  advanced  a  little.  The  stranger  was  doubtless  advan- 
cing too,  so  rapidly  did  his  figure  now  reveal  itself,  beyond  all 
doubt,  as  the  figure  of  a  man.  A  few  minutes  more,  and  Ar- 
nold fancied  he  recognized  it.  Yet  a  little  longer,  and  he  was 
quite  sure.  There  was  no  mistaking  the  lithe  strength  and 
grace  of  that  man,  and  the  smooth  easy  swiftness  with  which 
he  covered  his  ground.  It  was  the  hero  of  the  coming  foot- 
race.    It  was  Geofii-ey  on  his  M'ay  back  to  Windygates  House. 

Arnold  hurried  forward  to  meet  him.  Geoffrey  stood  still, 
poising  himself  on  his  stick,  and  let  the  other  come  up. 

"  Have  you  heard  what  has  happened  at  the  house  ?"  asked 
Arnold. 

He  instinctively  checked  the  next  question  as  it  rose  to  his 
lips.  There  was  a  settled  defiance  in  the  expression  of  Geof- 
frey's face,  which  Arnold  was  quite  at  a  loss  to  understand. 


MAN    AND   WIFE.  239 

He  looked  like  a  man  who  had  made  up  his  mind  to  confrout 
any  thing  that  could  happen,  and  to  contradict  any  body  who 
spoke  to  him. 

"  Something  seems  to  have  annoyed  you  ?"  said  Arnold. 

"  What's  up  at  the  house?"  returned  Geoflfrey,  with  his  loud- 
est voice  and  his  hardest  look. 

"  Miss  Silvester  has  been  at  the  house." 

"  Who  saw  her  ?" 

"Nobody  but  Blanche." 

"Well?" 

"  Well,  she  was  miserably  weak  and  ill,  so  ill  that  she  faint- 
ed, poor  thing,  in  the  library.     Blanche  brought  her  to." 

"And  what  then?" 

"  We  were  all  at  lunch  at  the  time.  Blanche  left  the  library, 
to  speak  privately  to  her  uncle.  When  she  went  back  Miss 
Silvester  was  gone,  and  nothing  has  been  seen  of  her  since." 

"A  row  at  the  house  ?" 

"  Nobody  knows  of  it  at  the  house,  except  Blanche — " 

"And  you  ?     And  how  many  besides?" 

"And  Sir  Patrick.     Nobody  else." 

"  Nobody  else  ?     Any  thing  more  ?" 

Arnold  remembered  his  promise  to  keep  the  investigation 
then  on  foot  a  secret  from  every  body.  Geoffrey's  manner 
made  him — unconsciously  to  himself — readier  than  he  might 
otherwise  have  been  to  consider  Geoffrey  as  included  in  the 
general  prohibition. 

"  Nothing  more,"  he  answered. 

Geoffrey  dug  the  point  of  his  stick  deep  into  the  soft,  sandy 
ground.  He  looked  at  the  stick,  then  suddenly  pulled  it  out 
of  the  ground  and  looked  at  Arnold.  "  Good  afternoon  !"  he 
said,  and  went  on  his  way  again  by  himself 

Arnold  followed,  and  stopped  him.  For  a  moment  the  two 
men  looked  at  each  other  without  a  word  passing  on  either 
side.     Arnold  spoke  first. 

"You're  out  of  humor,  Geoffrey.  What  has  upset  you  in 
this  way  ?    Have  you  and  Miss  Silvester  missed  each  other  ?" 

Geoffrey  was  silent. 

"  Have  you  seen  her  since  she  left  Windygates  ?" 

No  reply. 

"  Do  you  know  where  Miss  Silvester  is  now  ?" 

Still  no  reply.  Still  the  same  mutely-insolent  defiance  of 
look  and  manner.     Arnold's  dark  color  began  to  deepen. 

"  Why  don't  you  answer  me  ?"  he  said. 

"  Because  I  have  had  enough  of  it." 

"  Enough  of  what  ?" 

"  Enough  of  being  worried  about  Miss  Silvester.  Miss  Sil- 
vester's my  business — not  yours," 


240  MAN    AND    WIFli. 

"  Gently,  Geoffrey  !  Don't  forget  that  I  have  been  mixed 
up  in  that  business — without  seeliing  it  myself." 

"  There's  no  fear  of  my  forgetting.  You  have  cast  it  in  mj 
teeth  often  enough." 

"  Cast  it  in  your  teeth  ?" 

"  Yes  !  Am  I  never  to  hear  the  last  of  my  obligation  to 
you  ?  The  devil  take  the  obligation  !  I  am  sick  of  the  sound 
of  it." 

There  was  a  spirit  in  Arnold — not  easily  brought  to  the 
surface,  through  the  overlaying  simplicity  and  good-humor  of 
his  ordinary  character — which,  once  roused,  was  a  spirit  not 
readily  quelled.     Geoffrey  had  roused  it  at  last. 

"  When  you  come  to  your  senses,"  he  said,  "  I'll  remember 
old  times — and  receive  your  apology.  Till  you  do  come  to  your 
senses,  go  your  way  by  yourself.  I  have  no  more  to  say  to  you." 

GeoflVey  set  his  teeth,  and  came  one  step  nearer.  Arnold's 
eyes  met  his,  with  a  look  which  steadily  and  firmly  challenged 
him — though  he  7cas  the  stronger  man  of  the  two — to  force 
the  quarrel  a  step  further,  if  he  dared.  The  one  human  virtue 
which  Geoffrey  respected  and  understood  was  the  virtue  of 
courage.  And  there  it  was  before  him — the  undeniable  cour- 
age of  the  weaker  man.  The  callous  scoundrel  was  touched 
on  the  one  tender  place  in  his  whole  being.  He  turned,  and 
went  on  his  way  in  silence. 

Left  by  himself,  Arnold's  head  dropped  on  his  breast.  The 
friend  who  had  saved  his  life  —  the  one  friend  he  possessed, 
who  was  associated  with  his  earliest  and  happiest  remembrances 
of  old  days — had  grossly  insulted  him  ;  and  had  left  him  delib- 
erately, without  the  slightest  expression  of  regret.  Arnold's 
affectionate  nature — simple,  loyal,  clinging  where  it  once  fast- 
ened— was  wounded  to  the  quick.  Geoffrey's  fast-retreating 
figure,  in  the  open  view  before  him,  became  blurred  and  indis- 
tinct. He  put  his  hand  over  his  eyes,  and  hid,  with  a  boyish 
shame,  the  hot  tears  that  told  of  the  heart-ache,  and  that  hon- 
ored the  man  who  shed  them. 

He  was  still  struggling  with  the  emotion  which  had  over- 
powered him,  when  something  happened  at  the  place  where 
the  roads  met. 

The  four  roads  pointed  as  nearly  as  might  be  toward  the 
four  points  of  the  compass.  Arnold  was  now  on  the  road  to 
the  eastward,  having  advanced  in  that  direction  to  meet  Geof- 
frey, between  two  and  three  hundred  yards  from  the  farm-house 
inclosure  before  which  he  had  kept  his  watch.  The  road  to 
the  westward,  curving  away  behind  the  farm,  led  to  the  near- 
est market-town.  The  road  to  the  south  was  the  way  to  the 
station.  And  the  road  to  the  north  led  back  to  Windygates 
House. 


MAN   AND   WIPE.  241 

While  Geoffrey  was  still  fifty  yards  from  the  turning  which 
would  take  him  back  to  Windygates — while  the  tears  were 
still  standing  thickly  in  Arnold's  eyes — the  gate  of  the  farna 
inclosure  opened.  A  light  four-wheeled  chaise  came  out,  with 
a  man  driving,  and  a  woman  sitting  by  his  side.  The  woman 
was  Anne  Silvester,  and  the  man  was  the  owner  of  the  farm. 

Instead  of  taking  the  way  which  led  to  the  station,  the 
chaise  pursued  the  westward  j'oad  to  the  market-town.  Pro- 
ceeding in  this  direction,  the  backs  of  the  persons  in  the  vehicle 
were  necessarily  turned  on  Geoffrey,  advancing  behind  them 
from  the  eastward.  He  just  carelessly  noticed  the  shabby  lit- 
tle chaise,  and  then  turned  off  north  on  his  way  to  Windygates. 

By  the  time  Arnold  was  composed  enough  to  look  round 
him,  the  chaise  had  taken  the  curve  in  the  road  which  wound 
behind  the  farm-house.  He  returned — faithful  to  the  engage- 
ment which  he  had  undertaken — to  his  post  before  the  inclosure. 
The  chaise  was  then  a  speck  in  the  distance.  In  a  minute  more 
it  was  a  speck  out  of  sight. 

So  (to  use  Sir  Patrick's  phrase)  had  the  woman  broken 
through  difficulties  which  would  have  stopped  a  man.  So,  in 
her  sore  need,  had  Anne  Silvester  won  the  sympathy  which 
had  given  her  a  place,  by  the  farmer's  side,  in  the  vehicle  that 
took  him  on  his  own  business  to  the  market-town.  And  so 
by  a  hair-breadth,  did  she  escape  the  treble  risk  of  discovery 
which  threatened  her — from  Geoffrey,  on  his  way  back ;  from 
Arnold,  at  his  post ;  and  from  the  valet,  on  the  watch  for  her 
appearance  at  the  station. 

The  afternoon  wore  on.  The  servants  at  Windygates,  airing 
themselves  in  the  grounds — in  the  absence  of  their  mistress 
and  her  guests — were  disturbed,  for  the  moment,  by  the  unex- 
pected return  of  one  of  "the  gentlefolks."  Mr.  Geoffrey  Dela- 
mayn  re-appeared  at  the  house,  alone  ;  went  straight  to  the 
smoking-room  ;  and  calling  for  another  supply  of  the  old  ale, 
settled  himself  in  an  arm-chair  with  the  newspaper,  and  began 
to  smoke. 

He  soon  tired  of  reading,  and  fell  into  thinking  of  what  had 
happened  during  the  latter  part  of  his  walk. 

The  prospect  before  him  had  more  than  realized  the  most 
sanguine  anticipations  that  he  could  have  formed  of  it.  He 
had  braced  himself — after  what  had  happened  in  the  library — 
to  face  the  outbreak  of  a  serious  scandal,  on  his  return  to  the 
house.  And  here — when  he  came  back — was  nothing  to  face  ! 
Here  were  three  people  (Sir  Patrick,  Arnold,  and  Blanche)  who 
must  at  least  know  that  Anne  was  in  some  serious  trouble, 
keeping  the  secret  as  carefully  as  if  they  felt  that  his  interests 
were  at  stake  !  And,  more  wonderful  still,  here  was  Anne 
Hi 


242  MAN    AND    WIFE. 

herself— SO  far  from  raising  a  hue  and  cry  after  him — actually 

taking  flight,  without  s^xying  a  word  that  could  compromise 
him  with  any  living  soul ! 

What  in  the  name  of  wonder  did  it  mean  ?  He  did  his  best 
to  find  his  way  to  an  explanation  of  some  sort ;  and  he  actually 
contrived  to  account  for  the  silence  of  Blanche  and  her  uncle, 
and  Arnold.  It  was  pretty  clear  that  they  must  have  all  three 
combined  to  keep  Lady  Lundie  in  ignorance  of  her  runaway 
governess's  return  to  the  house. 

But  the  secret  of  Anne's  silence  completely  bafiled  him. 

He  was  simply  incapable  of  conceiving  that  the  horror  of 
seeing  herself  set  up  as  an  obstacle  to  Blanche's  marriage 
might  have  been  vivid  enough  to  overpower  all  sense  of  her 
own  wrongs,  and  to  hurry  her  away,  resolute,  in  her  ignorance 
of  what  else  to  do,  never  to  return  again,  and  never  to  let  liv- 
ing eyes  rest  on  her  in  the  character  of  Arnold's  wife.  "  It's 
clean  beyond  my  making  out,"  was  the  final  conclusion  at 
which  Geoffrey  arrived.  "  If  it's  her  interest  to  hold  her  tongue, 
it's  my  interest  to  hold  mine,  and  there's  an  end  of  it  for  the 
present !" 

He  put  up  his  feet  on  a  chair,  and  rested  his  magnificent 
muscles  after  his  walk,  and  filled  another  pipe,  in  thorough 
contentment  with  himself  No  interference  to  dread  from  Anne, 
no  more  awkward  questions  (on  the  terms  they  were  on  now) 
to  come  from  Arnold.  He  looked  back  at  the  quarrel  on  the 
heath  with  a  certain  complacency — he  did  his  friend  justice, 
though  they  Aaf?  disagreed.  "Who  would  have  thought  the 
fellow  had  so  much  pluck  in  him  !"  he  said  to  himself  as  he 
struck  the  match  and  lit  b''^  second  pipe. 

An  hour  more  wore  on ;  and  Sir  Patrick  was  the  next  per- 
son who  returned. 

He  was  thoughtful,  but  in  no  sense  depressed.  Judging  by 
appearances,  his  errand  to  Craig  Fernie  had  certainly  not  ended 
in  disappointment.  The  old  gentleman  hummed  his  favorite 
little  Scotch  air — rather  absently,  perhaps — and  took  his  pinch 
of  snufi"  from  the  knob  of  his  ivory  cane  much  as  usual.  He 
went  to  the  library  bell  and  summoned  a  servant. 

"Any  body  been  here  for  me?"—"  No,  Sir  Patrick."—"  No 
letters  ?" — "  No,  Sir  Patrick." — "  Very  well.  Come  up  stairs 
to  my  room,  and  help  me  on  with  my  dressing-gown."  The 
man  helped  him  to  his  dressing-gown  and  slippers.  "  Is  Miss 
Lundie  at  home  ?" — "  No,  Sir  Patrick.  They're  all  away  with 
my  lady  on  an  excursion." — "  Very  good.  Get  me  a  cup  of 
cofiee  ;  and  wake  me  half  an  hour  before  dinner,  in  case  I  take 
a  nap."  The  servant  went  out.  Sir  Patrick  stretched  himself 
on  the  sofa.  "Ay  !  ay !  a  little  aching  in  the  back,  and  a  cer- 
tain stiffness  in  the  legs.     I  dare  say  the  pony  feels  just  as  I  do. 


MAN    AXD   WIFE.  243 

Age,  I  suppose,  in  both  cases  ?  Well !  well  well !  let's  try 
and  be  young  at  heart,  'The  rest'  (as  Pope  says)  'is  leather 
and  prunella.'  "  He  returned  resignedly  to  his  little  Scotch 
air.  The  servant  came  in  with  the  coftee.  And  then  the 
room  was  quiet,  except  for  the  low  humming  of  insects  and  the 
gentle  rustling  of  the  creepers  at  tlie  window.  For  five  minutes 
or  so  Sir  Patrick  sipped  his  coftee,  and  meditated — by  no  means 
in  the  character  of  a  man  who  was  depressed  by  any  recent 
disappointment.     In  five  minutes  more  he  was  asleep. 

A  little  later,  and  the  party  returned  from  the  ruins. 

With  the  one  exception  of  their  lady-leader,  the  whole  ex- 
pedition was  depressed — Smith  and  Jones,  in  particular,  being 
quite  speechless.  Lady  Lundie  alone  still  met  feudal  antiquities 
with  a  cheerful  front.  She  had  cheated  the  man  who  showed 
the  ruins  of  his  shilling,  and  she  was  thoroughly  well  satisfied 
Avith  herself  Her  voice  was  flute-like  in  its  melody,  and  the 
celebrated  "  smile  "  had  never  been  in  better  order.  "  Deeply 
interesting  !"  said  her  ladyship,  descending  from  the  carriage 
with  ponderous  grace,  and  addressing  herself  to  Geofii'ey,  loung- 
ing under  the  portico  of  the  house.  "  You  have  had  a  loss, 
Mr.  Delamayn.  The  next  time  you  go  out  for  a  walk,  give  your 
hostess  a  word  of  warning,  and  you  won't  repent  it."  Blanche 
(looking  very  weary  and  anxious)  questioned  the  servant,  the 
moment  she  got  in,  about  Arnold  and  her  uncle.  Sir  Patrick 
was  invisible  up  stairs.  Mr.  Brinkworth  had  not  come  back. 
It  wanted  only  twenty  minutes  of  dinner-time ;  and  full  evening 
dress  was  insisted  on  at  Windygates.  Blanche,  nevertheless, 
still  lingered  in  the  hall  in  the  hope  of  seeing  Arnold  before 
she  went  up  stairs.  The  hope  was  realized.  As  the  clock  struck 
the  quarter  he  came  in.  And  he,  too,  was  out  of  spirits  like 
the  rest ! 

"  Have  you  seen  her  ?"  asked  Blanche. 

"No,"  said  Arnold,  in  the  most  perfect  good  faith.  "The 
way  she  has  escaped  by  is  not  the  way  by  the  cross-roads — I 
answer  for  that." 

They  separated  to  dress.  When  the  party  assembled  again, 
in  the  library,  before  dinner,  Blanche  found  her  way,  the  mo- 
ment he  entered  the  room,  to  Sir  Patrick's  side. 

"  News,  uncle  !     I'm  dying  for  news." 

"  Good  news,  my  dear — so  far." 

"  You  have  found  Anne  ?" 

"  Not  exactly  that." 

"  You  have  heard  of  her  at  Craig  Fernie  ?" 

"  I  have  made  some  important  discoveries  at  Craig  Fernie, 
Blanche.  Hush  !  here's  your  stepmother.  Wait  till  after  din- 
ner, and  you  may  hear  more  than  I  can  tell  you  now.  There 
may  be  news  from  the  station  between  this  and  then," 


244  MAN    AND   WIFE. 

The  dinner  was  a  wearisome  ordeal  to  at  least  two  other 
persons  present  besides  Blanche.  Arnold,  sitting  opposite  to 
Geoffrey,  without  exchanging  a  word  with  hira,felt  the  altered 
relations  between  his  former  friend  and  himself  very  painfully. 
Sir  Patrick,  missing  the  skilled  hand  of  Hester  Dethridge  in 
every  dish  that  was  oftered  to  him,  marked  the  dinner  among 
the  wasted  opportunities  of  his  life,  and  resented  his  sister-in- 
law's  flow  of  spirits  as  something  simply  inliuman  under  present 
circumstances.  Blanche  followed  Lady  Lundie  into  the  draw 
ing-room  in  a  state  of  burning  impatience  for  the  rising  of  the 
gentlemen  from  their  wine.  Her  stepmother — mapping  out 
a  new  antiquarian  excursion  for  the  next  day,  and  finding 
Blanche's  ears  closed  to  her  occasional  remarks  on  baronial 
Scotland  five  hundred  years  since — lamented,  with  satirical  em- 
phasis, the  absence  of  an  intelligent  companion  of  her  own  sex; 
and  stretched  her  majestic  figure  on  the  sofa  to  wait  until  an 
audience  worthy  of  her  flowed  in  from  the  dining-room.  Before 
very  long — so  soothing  is  the  influence  of  an  after-dinner  view 
of  feudal  antiquities,  taken  through  the  medium  of  an  approv- 
ing conscience — Lady  Lundie's  eyes  closed ;  and  from  Lady 
Lundie's  nose  there  poured,  at  intervals,  a  sound,  deep,  like  her 
ladyship's  learning ;  regular,  like  her  ladyship's  habits — a  sound 
associated  with  night-caps  and  bedrooms  ;  evoked  alike  by  Na- 
ture, the  leveler,  from  high  and  low — the  sound  (oh,  Truth, 
what  enormities  find  publicity  in  thy  name !) — the  sound  of  a 
Snore. 

Free  to  do  as  she  pleased,  Blanche  left  the  echoes  of  the 
drawing-room  in  undisturbed  enjoyment  of  Lady  Lundie's  au- 
dible repose. 

She  went  into  the  library,  and  turned  over  the  novels.  Went 
out  again,  and  looked  across  the  hall  at  the  dining-room  door. 
Would  the  men  never  have  done  talking  their  politics  and 
drinking  their  wine  ?  She  went  up  to  her  own  room,  and  changed 
her  ear-rings,  and  scolded  her  maid.  Descended  once  more — - 
and  made  an  alarming  discovery  in  a  dark  corner  of  the  hall. 

Two  men  were  standing  there,  hat  in  hand,  whispering  to  the 
butler.  The  butler,  leaving  them,  went  into  the  dining-room — 
came  out  again  with  Sir  Patrick — and  said  to  the  two  men, 
"  Step  this  way,  please."  The  two  men  came  out  into  the  light. 
Murdock,  the  station-master ;  and  Duncan,  the  valet !  News 
of  Anne ! 

"  Oh,  uncle,  let  me  stay  !"  pleaded  Blanche. 

Sir  Patrick  hesitated.  It  was  impossible  to  say — as  matters 
stood  at  that  moment — what  distressing  intelligence  the  two 
men  might  not  have  brought  of  the  missing  woman.  Duncan's 
return,  accompanied  by  the  station-master,  looked  serious. 
Blanche  instantly  penetrated  the  secret  of  her  uncle's  hesita- 


MAX    AND   WIFK.  245 

tion.  She  turned  pale,  and  caught  him  by  the  arm.  "  Don't 
send  me  away,"  she  whispered.  "  I  can  bear  any  thing  but 
suspense." 

"  Out  with  it !"  said  Sir  Patrick,  holding  his  niece's  hand.  "  Is 
she  found  or  not?" 

"  She's  gone  by  the  up  train,"  said  the  station-master.  "And 
we  know  where." 

Sir  Patrick  breathed  freely;  Blanche's  color  came  back.  In 
different  ways  the  relief  to  both  of  them  was  equally  great. 

"  You  had  my  orders  to  follow  her,"  said  Sir  Patrick  to  Dun- 
can.    "  Why  have  you  come  back?" 

"  Your  man  is  not  to  blame,  sir,"  interposed  the  station-mas- 
ter.    "The  lady  took  the  train  at  Kirkandrew." 

Sir  Patrick  started,  and  looked  at  the  station-master. 
"Ay?  ay?  The  next  station — the  market-town.  Inexcusa- 
bly stupid  of  me.     I  never  thought  of  that." 

"  I  took  the  liberty  of  telegraphing  your  description  of  the 
lady  to  Kirkandrew,  Sir  Patrick,  in  case  of  accidents." 

"  I  stand  corrected,  Mr.  Murdoch.  Your  head,  in  this  mat- 
ter, has  been  the  sharper  head  of  the  two.     Well  ?" 

"  There's  the  answer,  sir." 

Sir  Patrick  and  Blanche  read  the  telegram  together. 

"Kirkandrew.  Up  train.  7.40  p.m.  Lady  as  described. 
No  luggage.  Bag  in  her  hand.  Traveling  alone.  Ticket — 
second-class.     Place — Edinburgh." 

"  Edinburgh !"  repeated  Blanche.  "  Oh,  uncle  !  we  shall  lose 
her  in  a  great  place  like  that !" 

"We  shall  find  her,  my  dear;  and  you  shall  see  how.  Dun- 
can, get  me  pen,  ink,  and  paper.  Mr.  Murdoch,  you  are  going 
back  to  the  station,  I  suppose  ?" 

"  Yes,  Sir  Patrick." 

"  I  will  give  you  a  telegram,  to  be  sent  at  once  to  Edin- 
burgh." 

He  wrote  a  carefully-worded  telegraphic  message,  and  ad- 
dressed it  to  The  Sheriff  of  Mid-Lothian. 

"  The  Sheriff  is  an  old  friend  of  mine,"  he  explained  to  his 
niece.  "  And  he  is  now  in  Edinburgh.  Long  before  the  train 
gets  to  the  terminus  he  will  receive  this  personal  description 
of  Miss  Silvester,  with  my  request  to  have  all  her  movements 
carefully  watched  till  further  notice.  The  police  are  entirely 
at  his  disposal,  and  the  best  men  will  be  selected  for  the  pur- 
pose. I  have  asked  for  an  answer  by  telegraph.  Keep  a 
special  messenger  ready  for  it  at  the  station,  Mr.  Murdoch, 
Thank  you ;  good-evening.  Duncan,  get  your  supper,  and 
make  yourself  comfortable.  Blanche,  my  dear,  go  back  to  the 
drawing-room,  and  expect  us  in  to  tea  immediately.  You  will 
know  where  your  friend  is  before  you  go  to  bed  to-night." 


246  MAX   AND  WIFK. 

With  those  comforting  words  he  returned  to  the  gentlemen. 
In  ten  minutes  more  they  all  appeared  in  the  drawing-room; 
and  Lady  Lundie  (firmly  persuaded  that  she  had  never  closed 
her  eyes)  was  back  again  in  baronial  Scotland  five  hundred 
years  since. 

Blanche,  watching  her  opportunity,  caught  her  uncle  alone. 

"  Now  for  your  promise,"  she  said.  "  You  have  made  some 
important  discoveries  at  Craig  Fernie.     What  are  they  ?" 

Sir  Patrick's  eye  turned  toward  Geoffrey,  dozing  in  an  arm- 
chair in  a  corner  of  the  room.  He  showed  a  certain  disposi- 
tion to  trifle  with  the  curiosity  of  his  niece. 

"After  the  discovery  we  have  already  made,"  he  said,"  can't 
you  wait,  my  dear,  till  we  get  the  telegram  from  Edinburgh?" 

"  That  is  just  what  it's  impossible  for  me  to  do  !  The  tele- 
gram won't  come  for  hours  yet.  I  want  something  to  go  on 
with  in  the  mean  time." 

She  seated  herself  on  a  sofa  in  the  corner  opposite  Geoffrey, 
and  pointed  to  the  vacant  place  by  her  side. 

Sir  Patrick  had  promised — Sir  Patrick  had  no  choice  but  to 
keep  his  word.  After  another  look  at-  Geoffrey,  he  took  the 
vacant  place  by  his  niece. 


CHAPTER  THE  TWENTY-FOURTH. 

BACKWARD. 

"  Well  ?"  whispered  Blanche,  taking  her  uncle  confidential- 
ly by  the  arm. 

'  "Well,"  said  Sir  Patrick,  with  a  spark  of  his  satirical  humor 
flashing  out  at  his  niece,  "  I  am  going  to  do  a  very  rash  thing. 
I  am  going  to  place  a  serious  trust  in  the  hands  of  a  girl  of 
eighteen." 

"The  girl's  hands  will  keep  it,  uncle — though  she  is  only 
eighteen." 

"  I  must  run  the  risk,  my  dear ;  your  intimate  knowledge  of 
Miss  Silvester  may  be  of  the  greatest  assistance  to  me  in  the 
next  step  I  take.  You  shall  know  all  that  I  can  tell  you,  but 
I  must  warn  you  first.  I  can  only  admit  you  into  my  confi- 
dence by  startling  you  with  a  great  surprise.  Do  you  follow 
me,  so  far  ?" 

"  Yes !  yes  !" 

"  If  you  fail  to  control  yourself,  you  place  an  obstacle  in  the 
way  of  my  being  of  some  future  use  to  Miss  Silvester.  Re- 
member that,  and  now  prepare  for  the  surprise.  What  did  I 
{,ell  you  before  dinner?" 


MAN    AND    AVIPB.  24V 

"You  said  you  had  made  discoveries  at  Craig  Fernie.  What 
have  you  found  out?" 

"  I  have  found  out  that  there  is  a  certain  person  who  is  in 
full  possession  of  the  information  which  Miss  Silvester  has 
concealed  from  you  and  from  nie.  The  person  is  within  our 
reach.  The  person  is  in  this  neighborhood.  The  person  is  in 
this  room  !" 

He  caught  up  Blanche's  hand,  resting  on  his  arm,  and  press- 
ed it  significantly.  She  looked  at  him  with  the  cry  of  surprise 
suspended  on  her  lips — waited  a  little  with  her  eyes  fixed  on 
Sir  Patrick's  face — struggled  resolutely,  and  composed  herself. 

"Point  the  person  out."  She  said  the  words  with  a  self- 
possession  which  won  her  uncle's  hearty  approval.  Blanche 
had  done  wonders  for  a  girl  in  her  teens. 

"  Look  !"  said  Sir  Patrick ;  "  and  tell  me  what  you  see." 

"  I  see  Lady  Lundie,  at  the  other  end  of  the  room,  with  the 
map  of  Perthshire  and  the  Baronial  Antiquities  of  Scotland  on 
the  table.  And  I  see  every  body  but  you  and  me  obliged  to 
listen  to  her." 

"Everybody?" 

Blanche  looked  carefully  round  the  room,  and  noticed  Geof 
frey  in  the  opposite  corner ;  fast  asleep  by  this  time  in  his  arm- 
chair. 

"  Uncle  !  you  don't  mean —  ?" 

"There  is  the  man." 

"  Mr.  Delamayn —  !" 

"Mr.  Delamayn  knows  every  thing." 

Blanche  held  mechanically  by  her  uncle's  arm,  and  looked 
at  the  sleeping  man  as  if  her  eyes  could  never  see  enough  of 
him. 

"  You  saw  me  in  the  library  in  private  consultation  with 
Mr.  Delamayn,"  resumed  Sir  Patrick.  "  I  have  to  acknowl- 
edge, my  dear,  that  you  were  quite  right  in  thinking  this  a  sus- 
picious circumstance.  And  I  am  now  to  justify  myself  for 
having  purposely  kept  you  in  the  dark  up  to  the  present  time." 

With  those  introductory  words,  he  briefly  reverted  to  the 
earlier  occurrences  of  the  day,  and  then  added,  by  way  of 
commentary,  a  statement  of  the  conclusions  which  events  had 
suggested  to  his  own  mind. 

The  events,  it  may  be  remembered,  were  three  in  number. 
First,  Geoffrey's  private  conference  with  Sir  Patrick  on  the 
subject  of  Irregular  Marriages  in  Scotland.  Secondly,  Anne 
Silvester's  appearance  at  Windygates.     Thirdly,  Anne's  flight. 

The  conclusions  which  had  thereupon  suggested  themselves 
to  Sir  Patrick's  mind  were  six  in  number. 

First,  that  a  connection  of  some  sort  might  possibly  exist 
between  Geofii'ey's  acknowledged  difficulty  about  his  friend, 


248  MAN    AND    WIFE. 

and  Miss  Silvester's  presumed  difficulty  about  herself.  Sec- 
ondly, that  Geoffrey  had  really  put  to  Sir  Patrick — not  his  own 
case  —  but  the  case  of  a  friend.  Thirdly,  that  Geoffrey  had 
some  interest  (of  no  harmless  kind)  in  establishing  the  fact  of 
his  friend's  marriage.  Fourthly,  that  Anne's  anxiety  (as  de- 
scribed by  Blanche)  to  hear  the  names  of  the  gentlemen  who 
were  staying  at  Windygates,  pointed,  in  all  probability, to  Geof- 
frey. Fifthly,  that  this  last  inference  disturbed  the  second 
conclusion,  and  re-opened  the  doubt  whether  Geoffrey  had  not 
been  stating  his  own  case,  after  all,  under  pretense  of  stating 
the  case  of  a  friend.  Sixthly,  that  the  one  way  of  obtaining 
any  enlightenment  on  this  point,  and  on  all  the  other  points 
involved  in  mystery,  was  to  go  to  Craig  Fernie,  and  consult 
Mrs.  Inchbare's  experience  during  the  period  of  Anne's  resi- 
dence at  the  inn.  Sir  Patrick's  apology  for  keeping  all  this  a 
secret  from  his  niece  followed.  He  had  shrunk  from  agitating 
her  on  the  subject  until  he  could  be  sure  of  proving  his  conclu- 
sions to  be  ti'ue.  The  proof  had  been  obtained;  and  he  was  now, 
therefore,  ready  to  open  his  mind  to  Blanche  without  reserve. 

"  So  much,  my  dear,"  proceeded  Sir  Patrick,  "  for  those  nec- 
essary explanations  which  are  also  the  necessary  nuisances  of 
human  intercourse.  You  now  know  as  much  as  I  did  when  1 
arrived  at  Craig  Fernie — and  you  are,  therefore,  in  a  position 
to  appreciate  the  value  of  my  discoveries  at  the  inn.  Do  you 
understand  every  thing,  so  far  ?" 

"  Perfectly !" 

"Very  good.  I  drove  up  to  the  inn;  and  —  behold  me 
closeted  with  Mrs.  Inchbare  in  her  own  private  parlor!  (My 
reputation  may  or  may  not  suffer,  but  Mrs.  Inchbare's  bones 
are  above  suspicion  !)  It  was  a  long  business,  Blanche.  A 
more  sour-tempered,  cunning,  and  distrustful  witness  I  never 
examined  in  all  my  experience  at  the  Bar.  She  would  have 
upset  the  temper  of  any  mortal  man  but  a  lawyer.  We  have 
such  wonderful  tempers  in  our  profession  ;  and  we  can  be  so 
aggravating  when  we  like  !  In  short,  my  dear,  Mrs.  Inchbare 
was  a  she-cat,  and  I  was  a  he-cat — and  I  clawed  the  truth  out 
of  her  at  last.  The  result  was  well  worth  arriving  at,  as  you 
shall  see.  Mr.  Delamayn  had  described  to  me  certain  remarka- 
ble circumstances  as  taking  place  between  a  lady  and  a  gentle- 
man at  an  inn  :  the  object  of  the  parties  being  to  pass  them- 
selves off  at  the  time  as  man  and  wife.  Every  one  of  those 
circumstances,  Blanche,  occurred  at  Craig  Fernie,  between  a 
lady  and  a  gentleman,  on  the  day  when  Miss  Silvester  disap- 
peared from  this  house.  And — wait ! — being  pressed  for  her 
name,  after  the  gentleman  had  left  her  behind  him  at  the  inn, 
the  name  the  lady  gave  was, 'Mrs.  Silvester.'  What  do  you 
think  of  that  ?" 


MAN    AND    WIFE,  249 

"Think  !     I'm  bewildered— I  can't  realize  it." 

"  It's  a  startling  discovery,  niy  dear  child — there  is  no  deny- 
ing that.     Shall  I  wait  a  little,  and  let  you  recover  yourself?" 

"  No  !  no  !  Go  on  !  The  gentleman,  uncle  ?  The  gentle- 
man who  was  with  Anne  ?    Who  is  he  ?     Not  Mr.  Delamayn  ?" 

"  Not  Mr.  Delamayn,"  said  Sir  Patrick.  "  If  I  have  proved 
nothing  else,  I  have  proved  that." 

"  What  need  was  there  to  prove  it  ?  Mr,  Delamayn  went 
to  London  on  the  day  of  the  lawn-party.     And  Arnold — " 

"And  Arnold  went  with  him  as  far  as  the  second  station 
from  this.  Quite  true  !  But  how  was  I  to  know  what  Mr. 
Delamayn  might  have  done  after  Arnold  had  left  him  ?  I 
could  only  make  sure  that  he  had  not  gone  back  privately  to 
the  inn,  by  getting  the  proof  from  Mrs.  Inchbare." 

"  How  did  you  get  it  ?" 

"  I  asked  her  to  describe  the  gentleman  who  was  with  Miss 
Silvester.  Mrs.  Inchbare's  description  (vague  as  you  will  pres- 
ently find  it  to  be)  completely  exonerates  that  man,"  said  Sir 
Patrick,  pointing  to  Geoffrey,  still  asleep  in  his  chair,  '•'•He  is 
not  the  person  who  passed  Miss  Silvester  off  as  his  wife  at 
Craig  Fernie.  He  spoke  the  truth  when  he  described  the  case 
to  me  as  the  case  of  a  friend." 

"But  who  is  the  friend  ?"  persisted  Blanche,  "  That's  what 
I  want  to  know." 

"That's  what  I  want  to  know,  too," 

"Tell  me  exactly,  uncle,  what  Mrs.  Inchbare  said.  I  have 
lived  with  Anne  all  my  life.  I  must  have  seen  the  man  some- 
where." 

"  If  you  can  identify  him  by  ]Mrs.  Inchbare's  description," 
returned  Sir  Patrick,  "you  will  be  a  great  deal  cleverer  than  I 
am.  Here  is  the  picture  of  the  man,  as  painted  by  the  land- 
lady: Young;  middle-sized;  dark  hair,  eyes,  and  complex- 
ion ;  nice  temper ;  pleasant  way  of  speaking.  Leave  out 
'  young,'  and  the  rest  is  the  exact  contrary  of  Mr.  Delamayn. 
So  far,  Mrs.  Inchbare  guides  us  plainly  enough.  But  how  are 
we  to  applj^  her  description  to  the  right  person  ?  There  must 
be,  at  the  lowest  computation,  five  hundred  thousand  men  in 
England  who  are  young,  middle-sized,  dark,  nice-tempered,  and 
pleasant  spoken.  One  of  the  footmen  here  answers  that  de- 
scription in  every  particular." 

"And  Arnold  answers  it,"  said  Blanche — as  a  still  stronger 
instance  of  the  provoking  vagueness  of  the  description. 

"And  Arnold  answers  it,"  repeated  Sir  Patrick,  quite  agree- 
ing with  her. 

They  had  barely  said  those  Avords  when  Arnold  himself  ap- 
peared, approaching  Sir  Patrick  with  a  pack  of  cards  iu  hia 
hand. 


250  MAN    AND    WIFE. 

There — at  the  very  moment  when  they  had  both  guessed  the 
truth,  witliout  feeling  the  slightest  suspicion  of  it  in  their  own 
minds — there  stood  Discovery,  presenting  itself  unconsciously 
to  eyes  incapable  of  seeing  it,  in  the  person  of  the  man  who 
had  passed  Anne  Silvester  off  as  his  wife  at  the  Craig  Fernie 
inn  !  The  terrible  caprice  of  Chance,  the  merciless  irony  of 
Circumstance,  could  go  no  further  than  this.  The  three  had 
their  feet  on  the  brink  of  the  precipice  at  that  moment.  And 
two  of  them  wei'e  smiling  at  an  odd  coincidence ;  and  one  of 
them  was  shuffling  a  pack  of  cards  ! 

"  We  have  done  with  the  Antiquities  at  last !"  said  Arnold  ; 
"  and  we  are  going  to  play  at  Whist.  Sir  Patrick,  will  you 
choose  a  card  ?" 

"  Too  soon  after  dinner,  my  good  fellow,  for  me.  Play  the 
first  rubber,  and  then  give  me  another  chance.  By-the-way," 
he  added, "  Miss  Silvester  has  been  traced  to  Kirkandrew. 
How  is  it  that  you  never  saw  her  go  by?" 

"  She  can't  have  gone  my  way.  Sir  Patrick,  or  I  must  have 
seen  her." 

Having  justified  himself  in  those  terms,  he  was  recalled  to 
the  other  end  of  the  room  by  the  whist-party,  impatient  for 
the  cards  which  he  had  in  his  hand. 

"  What  were  we  talking  of  when  he  interrupted  us  ?"  said 
Sir  Patrick  to  Blanche. 

"  Of  the  man,  uncle,  who  was  with  Miss  Silvester  at  the 
inn." 

"  It's  useless  to  pursue  that  inquiry,  my  dear,  with  nothing 
better  than  Mrs.  Inchbare's  description  to  help  us." 

Blanche  looked  round  at  the  sleeping  Geoffrey. 

"And  he  knows  !"  she  said.  "  It's  maddening,  uncle,  to  look 
at  the  brute  snoring  in  his  chair !" 

Sir  Patrick  held  up  a  warning  hand.  Before  a  word  more 
could  be  said  between  them  they  were  silenced  again  by  an- 
other interruption. 

The  whist-party  comprised  Lady  Lundie  and  the  surgeon, 
playing  as  partners  against  Smith  and  Jones.  Arnold  sat  be- 
hind the  surgeon,  taking  a  lesson  in  the  game.  One,  Two,  and 
Three,  thus  left  to  their  own  devices,  naturally  thought  of  the 
billiard-table ;  and,  detecting  Geoffrey  asleep  in  his  corner,  ad- 
vanced to  disturb  his  slumbers,  under  the  all-sufficing  apology 
of  "  Pool."  Geoffrey  roused  himself,  and  rubbed  his  eyes,  and 
said,  drowsily,  "All  right."  As  he  rose,  he  looked  at  the  op- 
posite corner  in  which  Sir  Patrick  and  his  niece  were  sitting. 
Blanche's  self-possession,  resolutely  as  she  struggled  to  pre- 
serve it,  was  not  strong  enough  to  keep  her  eyes  from  turning 
toward  Geoffrey,  with  an  expression  which  betrayed  the  reluc- 
tant interest  that  she  now  felt  in  him.     He  stopped,  noticing 


MAN"    AND    WIPE.  251 

something  entirely  new  in  the  look  with  which  the  young  lady 
was  regarding  him. 

"  Beg  your  pardon,"  said  Geoffrey.  "  Do  you  wish  to  speak 
to  me  ?"" ' 

Blanche's  face  flushed  all  over.  Her  uncle  came  to  the  res- 
cue, 

"  Miss  Lundie  and  I  hope  you  have  slept  well,  Mr.  Dela- 
mayn,"  said  Sir  Patrick,  jocosely.     "  That's  all." 

"  Oh  ?  That's  all  ?"  said  Geoffrey,  still  looking  at  Blanche. 
"  Beg  your  pardon  again.  Deuced  long  walk,  and  deuced 
heavy  dinner.     Natural  consequence — a  nap." 

Sir  Patrick  eyed  him  closely.  It  was  plain  that  he  had  been 
honestly  puzzled  at  finding  himself  an  object  of  special  atten- 
tion on  Blanche's  part.  "  See  you  in  the  billiard-room  ?"  he 
said,  carelessly,  and  followed  his  companions  out  of  the  room 
— as  usual,  without  waiting  for  an  answer." 

"Mind  what  you  are  about,"  said  Sir  Patrick  to  his  niece. 
"That  man  is  Quicker  than  he  looks.  We  commit  a  serious 
mistake  if  we  put  him  on  his  guard  at  starting." 

"  It  sha'n't  happen  again,  uncle,"  said  Blanche.  "  But  think 
of  his  being  in  Anne's  confidence,  and  of  my  being  shut  out  of 
it!" 

"In  his  frietid's  confidence,  you  mean,  my  dear;  and  (if  we 
only  avoid  awakening  his  suspicion)  there  is  no  knowing  how 
soon  he  may  say  or  do  something  which  may  show  us  who  his 
friend  is." 

"  But  he  is  going  back  to  his  brother's  to-morrow — he  said 
so  at  dinner-time." 

"  So  much  the  better.  He  will  be  out  of  the  way  of  seeing 
strange  things  in  a  certain  young  lady's  face.  His  brother's 
house  is  within  easy  reach  of  this ;  and  I  am  his  legal  adviser. 
My  experience  tells  me  that  he  has  not  done  consulting  mo 
yet,  and  that  he  will  let  out  something  more  next  time.  So 
much  for  our  chance  of  seeing  the  light  through  Mr.  Delamayn 
— if  we  can't  see  it  in  any  other  way.  And  that  is  not  our 
only  chance,  remember.  I  have  something  to  tell  you  about 
Bishopriggs  and  the  lost  letter," 

"  Is  it  found  ?" 

"  No.  I  satisfied  myself  about  that — I  had  it  searched  for, 
under  my  own  eye.  The  letter  is  stolen,  Blanche ;  and  Bish- 
opriggs has  got  it.  I  have  left  a  line  for  him,  in  Mrs.  Inch- 
bare's  care.  The  old  rascal  is  missed  already  by  the  visitors 
at  the  inn,  just  as  I  told  you  he  would  be.  His  mistress  is 
feeling  the  penalty  of  having  been  fool  enough  to  vent  her  ill 
temper  on  her  head-waiter.  She  lays  the  whole  blame  of  the 
quarrel  on  Miss  Silvester,  of  course.  Bisliopriggs  neglected 
every  body  at  the  inn  to  wait  on  Miss  Silvester.     Bishopriggs 


252  MAN    AND   WIFE. 

was  insolent  on  being  remonstrated  with,  and  Miss  Silvester 
encouraged  him — and  so  on.  The  result  will  be — now  Miss 
Silvester  has  gone  —  that  Bishopriggs  will  return  to  Craig 
Fernie  before  the  autumn  is  over.  We  are  sailing  with  wind 
and  tide,  my  dear.     Come,  and  learn  to  play  whist." 

He  rose  to  join  the  card-players.    -Blanche  detained  him. 

"You  haven't  told  me  one  thing  yet,"  she  said.  "Whoever 
the  man  may  be,  is  Anne  married  to  him  ?" 

"Whoever  the  man  may  be,"  returned  Sir  Patrick,  "he  had 
better  not  attempt  to  marry  any  body  else." 

So  the  niece  unconsciously  put  the  question,  and  so  the  un- 
cle unconsciously  gave  the  answer,  on  which  depended  the 
whole  happiness  of  Blanche's  life  to  come.  The  "  man  !"  How 
lightly  they  both  talked  of  the  "man  !"  Would  nothing  hap- 
pen to  rouse  the  faintest  suspicion — in  their  minds  or  in  Ar- 
nold's mind— that  Arnold  was  the  "  man  "  himself? 

"  You  mean  that  she  is  married  ?"  said  Blanche. 

"  I  don't  go  as  far  as  that." 

"  You  mean  that  she  is  not  married?" 

"  I  don't  go  as  far  as  that.'''' 

"  Oh  !  the  law  !" 

"Provoking,  isn't  it,  my  dear?  I  can  tell  you,  professional- 
ly, that  (in  my  opinion)  she  has  grounds  to  go  on  if  she  claims 
to  be  the  man's  wife.  That  is  what  I  meant  by  my  answer; 
and,  until  we  know  more,  that  is  all  I  can  say." 

"  When  shall  we  know  more  ?  When  shall  we  get  the  tele- 
gram ?" 

"  Not  for  some  hours  yet.     Come,  and  learn  to  play  whist." 

"  I  think  I  would  rather  talk  to  Arnold,  uncle,  if  you  don't 
mind." 

"  By  all  means  !  But  don't  talk  to  him  about  Avhat  I  have 
been  telling  you  to-night.  He  and  Mr,  Delamayn  are  old  asso- 
ciates, remember ;  and  he  might  blunder  into  telling  his  friend 
what  his  friend  had  better  not  know.  Sad  (isn't  it?)  for  me 
to  be  instilling  these  lessons  of  duplicity  into  the  youthful 
mind.  A  wise  person  once  said,  'Tlie  older  a  man  gets  the 
worse  he  gets.'  That  wise  person,  my  dear,  had  me  in  his  eye, 
and  was  perfectly  right." 

He  mitigated  the  pain  of  that  confession  with  a  pinch  of 
snuff,  and  went  to  the  whist-table  to  wait  until  the  end  of  the 
rubber  gave  him  a  place  at  the  game. 


MAN    AND    WIFE.  25 J 


CHAPTER  THE  TWENTY-FIFTH. 

FORWARD. 

Blanche  found  her  lover  as  attentive  as  usual  to  her  slight- 
est wish,  but  not  in  his  customary  good  spirits.  He  pleaded 
fatigue,  after  his  long  watch  at  the  cross-roads,  as  an  excuse 
for  his  depression.  As  long  as  there  was  any  hope  of  a  recon- 
ciliation with  Geoffrey,  he  was  unwilling  to  tell  Blanche  what 
had  happened  that  afternoon.  The  hope  grew  fainter  and 
fainter  as  the  evening  advanced.  Arnold  purposely  suggested 
a  visit  to  the  billiard-roora,  and  joined  the  game,  with  Blanche, 
to  give  Geoffrey  an  opportunity  of  saying  the  few  gracious 
words  which  would  have  made  them  friends  again.  Geoffrey 
never  spoke  the  words ;  he  obstinately  ignored  Arnold's  pres- 
ence in  the  room. 

At  the  card-table  the  whist  went  on  interminably.  Lady 
Lundie,  Sir  Patrick,  and  the  surgeon  were  all  inveterate  play- 
ers, evenly  matched.  Smith  and  Jones  (joining  the  game  al- 
ternately) were  aids  to  whist,  exactly  as  they  were  aids  to  con- 
versation. The  same  safe  and  modest  mediocrity  of  style  dis- 
tinguished the  proceedings  of  these  two  gentlemen  in  all  the 
affairs  of  life. 

The  time  wore  on  to  midnight.  They  went  to  bed  late  and 
they  rose  late  at  Windygates  House.  Under  that  hospitable 
roof,  no  intrusive  hints,  in  the  shape  of  flat  candlesticks  exhib- 
iting themselves  with  ostentatious  virtue  on  side-tables,  hur- 
ried the  guest  to  his  room ;  no  vile  bell  rang  him  ruthlessly 
out  of  bed  the  next  morning,  and  insisted  on  his  breakfasting 
at  a  given  hour.  Life  has  surely  hardships  enough  that  are 
inevitable,  without  gratuitously  adding  the  hardship  of  abso- 
lute government,  administered  by  a  clock  ? 

It  was  a  quarter  past  twelve  when  Lady  Lundie  rose  bland- 
ly from  the  whist-table,  and  said  that  she  supposed  somebody 
must  set  the  example  of  going  to  bed.  Sir  Patrick  and  Smith, 
the  surgeon  and  Jones,  agreed  on  a  last  rubber.  Blanche  van- 
ished while  her  stepmother's  eye  was  on  her;  and  appeared 
again  in  the  drawing-room,  when  Lady  Lundie  was  safe  in  the 
hands  of  her  maid.  Nobody  followed  the  example  of  the  mis- 
tress of  the  house  but  Arnold.  He  left  the  billiard-room  with 
the  certainty  that  it  was  all  over  now  between  Geoffrey  and 
himself.  Not  even  the  attraction  of  Blanche  proved  strong 
enough  to  detain  him  that  night.     He  went  his  way  to  bed, 


254  MAN    AND    WIFE. 

It  was  past  one  o'clock.  The  final  rubbei*  was  at  an  end; 
the  accounts  were  settled  at  the  card-table ;  the  surgeon  had 
strolled  into  the  billiard-room,  and  Smith  and  Jones  had  fol- 
lowed him,  when  Duncan  came  in,  at  last,  with  the  telegram  in 
his  hand. 

Blanche  turned  from  the  broad,  calm  autumn  moonlight 
which  had  drawn  her  to  the  window,  and  looked  over  her  un- 
cle's shoulder  while  he  opened  the  telegram. 

She  read  the  first  line — and  that  was  enough.  The  whole 
scaffolding  of  hope  built  round  that  morsel  of  paper  fell  to  the 
ground  in  an  instant.  The  train  from  Kirkandrew  had  reached 
Edinburgh  at  the  usual  time.  Every  passenger  in  it  had  pass- 
ed under  the  eyes  of  the  police;  and  nothing  had  been  seen  of 
any  person  who  answered  the  description  given  of  Anne  ! 

Sir  Patrick  pointed  to  the  last  two  sentences  in  the  tele- 
gram :  "  Inquiries  telegraphed  to  Falkirk.  If  with  any  result, 
you  shall  know." 

"  We  must  hope  for  the  best,  Blanche.  They  evidently  sus- 
pect her  of  having  got  out  at  the  junction  of  the  two  railways 
for  the  purpose  of  giving  the  telegraph  the  slip.  There  is  no 
help  for  it.     Go  to  bed,  child — go  to  bed." 

Blanche  kissed  her  iincle  in  silence  and  went  away.  The 
bright  young  face  was  sad  with  the  first  hopeless  sorrow  which 
the  old  man  had  yet  seen  in  it.  His  niece's  parting  look  dwelt 
painfully  on  his  mind  when  he  was  up  in  his  room,  with  the 
faithful  Duncan  getting  him  ready  for  his  bed. 

"This  is  a  bad  business,  Duncan.  I  don't  like  to  say  so 
to  Miss  Lundie ;  but  I  greatly  fear  the  governess  has  bafiled 
us." 

"  It  seems  likely,  Sir  Patrick.  The  poor  young  lady  looks 
quite  heart-broken  about  it." 

"  You  noticed  that  too,  did  you  ?  She  has  lived  all  her 
life,  you  see,  with  Miss  Silvester ;  and  there  is  a  very  strong 
attachment  between  them.  I  am  uneasy  about  my  niece, 
Duncan.  I  am  afraid  this  disappointment  will  have  a  seri- 
ous effect  on  her." 

"  She's  young,  Sir  Patrick." 

"Yes,  my  friend,  she's  young;  but  the  young  (when  they 
are  good  for  any  thing)  have  warm  hearts.  Winter  hasn't 
stolen  on  them,  Duncan  !     And  they  feel  keenly." 

"  I  think  there's  reason  to  hope,  sir,  that  Miss  Lundie  may 
get  over  it  more  easily  than  you  suppose." 

"  What  reason,  pray  ?" 

"A  person  in  my  position  can  hardly  venture  to  speak  free- 
ly, sir,  on  a  delicate  matter  of  this  kind." 

Sir  Patrick's  temper  flashed  out,  half-seriously,  half-whimsi- 
cally,  as  usual. 


MAN    AND   WIFK.  256 

"  Is  that  a  snap  at  Me,  you  old  dog  ?  If  I  am  not  your 
friend,  as  well  as  your  master,  who  is  ?  Am  /  in  the  habit  of 
keeping  any  of  ray  harmless  fellow-creatures  at  a  distance  ?  I 
'lespise  the  cant  of  modern  Liberalism;  but  it's  not  the  less 
' ;  ue  that  I  have,  all  my  life,  protested  against  the  inhuman  sep- 
.nution  of  classes  in  England.  "VVe  are,  in  that  respect,  brag  as 
we  may  of  our  national  virtue,  the  most  unchristian  people  in 
the  civilized  world." 

"  I  beg  your  pardon.  Sir  Patrick — " 

"  God  help  me  !  I'm  talking  politics  at  this  time  of  night ! 
It's  your  fault,  Duncan.  What  do  you  mean  by  casting  my 
station  in  my  teeth,  because  I  can't  put  my  night-cap  on  com- 
fortably till  you  have  brushed  my  hair?  I  have  a  good  mind 
to  get  up  and  brush  yours.  There  !  there !  I'm  uneasy  about 
ray  niece  —  nervous  irritability,  ray  good  fellow,  that's  all. 
Let's  hear  w^hat  you  have  to  say  about  Miss  Lundie.  And  go 
on  with  ray  hair.     And  don't  be  a  humbug." 

"  I  was  about  to  remind  you.  Sir  Patrick,  that  Miss  Lundie 
has  another  interest  in  her  life  to  turn  to.  If  this  matter  of 
Miss  Silvester  ends  badly — and  I  own  it  begins  to  look  as  if  it 
would — I  should  hurry  ray  niece's  marriage,  sir,  and  see  if  that 
wouldn't  console  her." 

Sir  Patrick  started  under  the  gentle  discipline  of  the  hair- 
brush in  Duncan's  hand. 

"  That's  very  sensibly  put,"  said  the  old  gentleman.  "  Dun- 
can !  you  are  what  I  call  a  clear-minded  man.  Well  worth 
thinking  of,  old  Truepenny  !  If  the  worst  comes  to  the  worst, 
well  worth  thinking  of !" 

It  was  not  the  iirst  time  that  Duncan's  steady  good  sense 
had  struck  light,  under  the  form  of  a  new  thought,  in  his  raas- 
ter's  mind.  But  never  yet  had  he  wrought  such  mischief  as 
the  mischief  which  he  had  innocently  done  now.  He  had  sent 
Sir  Patrick  to  bed  with  the  fatal  idea  of  hastening  the  mar- 
riage of  Arnold  and  Blanche. 

The  situation  of  affairs  at  Windygates — now  that  Anne  had 
apparently  obliterated  all  trace  of  herself — was  becoming  seri- 
ous. The  one  chance  on  which  the  discovery  of  Arnold's  po- 
sition depended,  was  the  chance  that  accident  might  reveal 
the  truth  in  the  lapse  of  tirae.  In  this  posture  of  circum- 
stances. Sir  Patrick  now  resolved — if  nothing  happened  to  re- 
lieve Blanche's  anxiety  in  the  course  of  the  week — to  advance 
the  celebration  of  the  marriage  from  the  end  of  the  autumn 
(as  originally  contemplated)  to  the  first  fortnight  of  the  ensu- 
ing month.  As  dates  then  stood,  the  change  led  (so  far  as  free 
scope  for  the  development  oi  accident  was  concerned)  to  this 
serious  result.  It  abridged  a  lapse  of  three  months  into  an  in- 
terval of  three  weeks. 


256  MAN   AND   WrPE. 

The  next  morning  came ;  and  Blanche  marked  it  as  a  mem- 
orable morning,  by  committing  an  act  of  imprudence  which 
struck  away  one  more  of  the  chances  of  discovery  that  had  ex- 
isted, before  the  arrival  of  the  Edinburgh  telegram  on  the  pre- 
vious day. 

She  had  passed  a  sleepless  night ;  fevered  in  mind  and  body  ; 
thinking,  hour  after  hour,  of  nothing  but  Anne.  At  sunrise 
she  could  endure  it  no  longer.  Her  power  to  control  herself 
was  completely  exhausted  ;  her  own  impulses  led  her  as  they 
pleased.  She  got  up,  determined  not  to  let  GeoffVey  leave  the 
house  without  risking  an  effort  to  make  him  reveal  what  he 
knew  about  Anne.  It  was  nothing  less  than  downright  trea- 
son to  Sir  Patrick  to  act  on  her  own  responsibility  in  this  way. 
She  knew  it  was  wrong;  she  was  heartily  ashamed  of  herself 
for  doing  it.  But  the  demon  that  possesses  women  with  a  leck- 
lessness  all  their  own,  at  the  critical  moment  of  their  lives,  had 
got  her — and  she  did  it. 

Geoffrey  had  arranged,  overnight,  to  breakfast  early,  by  him- 
self, and  to  walk  the  ten  miles  to  his  brother's  house ;  sending 
a  servant  to  fetch  his  luggage  later  in  the  day. 

He  had  got  on  his  hat ;  he  was  standing  in  the  hall,  search- 
ing his  pocket  for  his  second  self,  the  pipe — when  Blanche  sud- 
denly appeared  from  the  morning-room,  and  placed  herself  be- 
tween him  and  the  house  door. 

"  Up  early— eh  ?"  said  Geoffrey.    "  I'm  off  to  my  brother's." 

She  made  no  reply.  He  looked  at  her  closer.  The  girl's 
eyes  were  trying  to  read  his  face,  with  an  utter  carelessness 
of  concealment,  which  forbade  (even  to  his  mind)  all  unworthy 
interpretation  of  her  motive  for  stopping  him  on  his  way  out. 

"Any  commands  for  me?"  he  inquired. 

This  time  she  answered  him.  "  I  have  something  to  ask 
you,"  she  said. 

He  smiled  graciously,  and  opened  his  tobacco-pouch.  He 
was  fresh  and  strong  after  his  night's  sleep — healthy  and  hand- 
some and  good-humored.  The  house-maids  had  had  a  peep  at 
him  that  morning,  and  had  wished— like  Desdemona,  with  a 
difference — that  "  Heaven  had  made  all  three  of  them  such  a 
man." 

"  Well,"  he  said, "  what  is  it  ?" 

She  put  her  question,  without  a  single  word  of  preface — pur- 
posely to  surprise  him. 

"  Mr.  Delamayn,"  she  said,  "  do  you  know  where  Anne  Sil- 
vester is  this  morning?" 

He  was  filling  his  pipe  as  she  spoke,  and  he  dropped  some 
of  the  tobacco  on  the  floor.  Instead  of  answering  before  he 
picked  up  the  tobacco  he  answered  after — in  surly  self-posses- 
sion, and  in  one  word — "  No." 


MAN    AND    WIFE.  257 

"Do  you  know  nothing  about  her?" 

He  devoted  liimself  doggedly  to  the  filling  of  his  pipe. 
«  Nothing." 

"  On  3'our  word  of  honor  as  a  gentleman  ?" 

"On  my  word  of  honor  as  a  gentleman." 

He  put  back  his  tobacco-pouch  in  his  pocket.  His  handsome 
fiice  was  as  hard  as  stone.  His  clear  blue  eyes  defied  all  the 
girls  in  England  put  together  to  see  into  his  mind.  "Have 
you  done,  Miss  Lundie  ?"  he  asked,  suddenly  changing  to  a 
bantering  politeness  of  tone  and  manner. 

Blanche  saw  that  it  was  hopeless  —  saw  that  she  had  com- 
promised her  own  interests  by  her  own  headlong  act.  Sir 
Patrick's  warning  words  came  back  reproachfully  to  her  now 
when  it  was  too  late.  "  We  commit  a  serious  mistake  if  we 
put  him  on  his  guard  at  starting." 

There  was  but  one  course  to  take  now.  "  Yes,"  she  said ; 
"  I  have  done." 

"My  turn  now,"  rejoined  Geoffrey.  "You  want  to  know 
where  Miss  Silvester  is.     Why  do  you  ask  Me  ?" 

Blanche  did  all  that  could  he  done  toward  repairing  the  er- 
ror that  she  had  committed.  She  kept  Geofirey  as  far  away 
as  Geoff*rey  had  kept  he?'  from  the  truth. 

"  I  happen  to  know,"  she  replied,  "  that  Miss  Silvester  left 
the  place  at  which  she  had  been  staying  about  the  time  when 
you  went  out  walking  yesterday.  And  I  thought  you  might 
have  seen  hei-." 

"  Oh  ?  That's  the  reason  —  is  it  ?"  said  Geofii-ey,  with  a 
smile. 

The  smile  stung  Blanche's  sensitive  temper  to  the  quick. 
She  made  a  final  efibrt  to  control  herself,  before  her  indigna- 
tion got  the  better  of  her. 

"  I  have  no  more  to  say,  Mr.  Delamayn."  With  that  reply 
she  turned  her  back  on  him,  and  closed  the  door  of  the  morn- 
ing-room between  them. 

Geoffrey  descended  the  house  steps  and  lit  his  pipe.  He 
was  not  at  the  slightest  loss,  on  this  occasion,  to  account  for 
what  had  happened.  Pie  assumed  at  once  that  Arnold  had 
taken  a  mean  revenge  on  him  after  his  conduct  of  the  day  be- 
fore, and  had  told  the  whole  secret  of  his  errand  at  Craig  Fer- 
nie  to  Blanche.  The  thing  would  get  next,  no  doubt,  to  Sir 
Patrick's  ears ;  and  Sir  Patrick  would  thereupon  be  probably 
the  first  person  who  revealed  to  Arnold  the  position  in  which 
he  had  placed  himself  with  Anne.  All  right !  Sir  Patrick 
would  be  an  excellent  witness  to  appeal  to,  when  the  scandal 
broke  out,  and  when  the  time  came  for  repudiating  Anne's 
claim  on  him  as  the  barefaced  imposture  of  a  woman  who  was 
man  led  already  to  another  man.     He  pufted  away  unconceru- 


258  MAN    AND    WIFE. 

edly  at  his  pipe,  and  started,  at  his  swinging,  steady  pace,  for 
his  brother's  house. 

Blanche  remained  alone  in  the  morning-room.  The  prospect 
of  getting  at  the  truth,  by  means  of  what  GeoflTrey  might  say 
on  the  next  occasion  when  he  consulted  Sir  Patrick,  was  a 
prospect  that  she  hei'self  had  closed  from  that  moment.  She 
sat  down  in  despair  by  the  window.  It  commanded  a  view  of 
the  little  side-terrace  which  had  been  Anne's  favorite  walk  at 
Windygates.  With  weary  eyes  and  aching  heart  the  poor 
child  looked  at  the  familiar  place  ;  and  asked  herself,  with  the 
bitter  repentance  that  comes  too  late,  if  she  had  detroyed  the 
last  chance  of  finding  Anne  ! 

She  sat  passively  at  the  window,  while  the  hours  of  the 
moi'ning  wore  on,  until  the  postman  came.  Before  the  serv- 
ant could  take  the  letter-bag  she  was  in  the  hall  to  receive  it. 
Was  it  possible  to  hope  that  the  ba^  had  brought  tidings  of 
Anne  ?  She  sorted  the  letters,  and  lighted  suddenly  on  a  let- 
ter to  herself  It  bore  the  Kirkandrew  post-mark,  and  it  was 
addressed  to  her  in  Anne's  handwriting. 

She  tore  the  letter  open,  and  read  these  lines: 

"  I  have  left  you  forever,  Blanche.  God  bless  and  reward 
you  !  God  make  you  a  happy  woman  in  all  your  life  to  come ! 
Cruel,  as  you  will  think  me,  love,  I  have  never  been  so  truly 
your  sister  as  I  am  now.  I  can  only  tell  you  this — I  can  nev- 
er tell  you  more.  Forgive  me,  and  forget  me.  Our  lives  are 
parted  lives  from  this  day." 

Going  down  to  breakfast  about  his  usual  hour,  Sir  Patrick 
missed  Blanche,  whom  he  was  accustomed  to  see  waiting  for 
him  at  the  table  at  that  time.  The  room  was  empty ;  the  oth- 
er members  of  the  household  having  all  finished  their  morning 
meal.  Sir  Patrick  disliked  breakfasting  alone.  He  sent  Dun- 
can with  a  message,  to  be  given  to  Blanche's  maid. 

The  maid  appeared  in  due  time.  Miss  Lundie  was  unable  to 
leave  her  room.  She  sent  a  letter  to  her  uncle,  with  her  love 
— and  begged  he  would  read  it. 

Sir  Patrick  opened  the  letter,  and  saw  what  Anne  had  writ- 
ten to  Blanche. 

He  waited  a  little,  reflecting,  with  evident  pain  and  anxiety, 
on  what  he  had  read — then  opened  his  own  letters,  and  hur- 
riedly looked  at  the  signatures.  There  was  nothing  for  him 
from  his  friend,  the  sheriiF,  at  Edinburgh,  and  no  communica- 
tion from  the  railway,  in  the  shape  of  a  telegram.  He  had  de- 
cided, overnight,  on  waiting  till  the  end  of  the  week  before  he 
interfered  in  the  matter  of  Blanche's  marriage.  The  events 
of  the  morning  determined  him  on  not  waiting  another  day. 
Duncan  returned  to  the  breakfast- room  to  pour  out  his  mas- 


MAN    AND    WIFE.  259 

ter's  coffee.  Sir  Patrick  sent  him  away  again  with  a  second 
message. 

"  Do  you  know  where  Lady  Lundie  is,  Duncan  ?" 

"  Yes,  Sir  Patrick." 

"  My  compliments  to  her  ladyship.  If  she  is  not  otherwise 
engaged,  I  shall  be  glad  to  speak  to  her  privately  in  an  hour's 
time." 


CHAPTER  THE  TWENTY-SIXTH. 

DROPPED. 

Sir  Patrick  made  a  bad  breakfast.  Blanche's  absence 
fretted  him,  and  Anne  Silvester's  letter  puzzled  him. 

He  read  it,  short  as  it  was,  a  second  time,  and  a  third.  If  it 
meant  any  thing,  it  meant  that  the  motive  at  the  bottom  of 
Anne's  flight  was  to  accomplish  the  sacrifice  of  herself  to  the 
happiness  of  Blanche.  She  had  parted  for  life  from  his  niece 
for  his  niece's  sake  !  What  did  this  mean  ?  And  how  was  it 
to  be  reconciled  with  Anne's  position — as  described  to  him  by 
Mrs.  Inchbare  during  his  visit  to  Craig  Fernie  ? 

All  Sir  Patrick's  ingenuity,  and  all  Sir  Patrick's  experience, 
failed  to  find  so  much  as  the  shadow  of  an  answer  to  that 
question. 

While  he  was  still  pondering  over  the  letter,  Arnold  and 
the  surgeon  entered  the  breakfast-room  together. 

"  Have  you  heard  about  Blanche  ?"  asked  Arnold,  excitedly. 
"  She  is  in  no  danger.  Sir  Patrick — the  worst  of  it  is  over  now." 

The  surgeon  interposed  before  Sir  Patrick  could  appeal  to 
him. 

"  Mr.  Brinkworth's  interest  in  the  young  lady  a  little  exag- 
gerates the  state  of  the  case,"  he  said.  "  I  have  seen  her,  at 
Lady  Lundie's  request ;  and  I  can  assure  you  that  there  is  not 
the  slightest  reason  for  any  present  alarm.  Miss  Lundie  has 
had  a  nervous  attack,  which  has  yielded  to  the  simplest  domes- 
tic remedies.  The  only  anxiety  you  need  feel  is  connected 
with  the  management  of  her  in  the  future.  She  is  suffering 
from  some  mental  distress,  which  it  is  not  for  me,  but  for  her 
friends,  to  alleviate  and  remove.  If  you  can  turn  her  thoughts 
from  the  painful  subject — whatever  it  may  be — on  which  they 
are  dwelling  now,  you  will  do  all  that  needs  to  be  done."  He 
took  up  a  newspaper  from  the  table,  and  strolled  out  into  the 
garden,  leaving  Sir  Patrick  and  Arnold  together. 

"  You  heard  that  ?"  said  Sir  Patrick. 

"  Is  he  right,  do  j'ou  think  ?"  asked  Arnold. 

"  Right  ?    Do  you  suppose  a  man  gets  his  reputation  by 


260  MAN    AND    WIPE. 

making  mistakes  ?  You're  one  of  the  new  generation,  Mastei 
Arnold.  You  can  all  of  you  stare  at  a  famous  man ;  but  you 
haven't  an  atom  of  respect  for  his  fame.  If  Shakspeare  came 
to  life  again,  and  talked  of  play-writing,  the  first  pretentious 
nobody  who  sat  opposite  at  dinner  would  differ  with  him  as 
composedly  as  he  might  differ  with  you  and  me.  Veneration 
is  dead  among  us  ;  the  present  age  has  buried  it,  without  a 
stone  to  mark  the  place.  So  much  for  that !  Let's  get  back 
to  Blanche,  I  suppose  you  can  guess  what  the  painful  subject 
is  that's  dwelling  on  her  mind  ?  Miss  Silvester  has  baffled 
me,  and  baffled  the  Edinburgh  police.  Blanche  discovered  that 
we  had  failed  last  night,  and  Blanche  received  that  letter  this 
morning." 

He  pushed  Anne's  letter  across  the  breakfast-table. 

Arnold  I'ead  it,  and  handed  it  back  without  a  word.  Viewed 
by  the  new  light  in  which  he  saw  Geoffrey's  character  after 
the  quarrel  on  the  heath,  the  letter  conveyed  but  one  conclu- 
sion to  his  mind.     Geoffrey  had  deserted  her, 

"  Well  ?"  said  Sir  Patrick.  "  Do  you  understand  what  it 
means  ?" 

"I  understand  Blanche's  wretchedness  when  she  read  it." 

He  said  no  more  than  that.  It  was  plain  that  no  informa- 
tion which  he  could  afford — even  if  he  had  considered  himself 
at  liberty  to  give  it — would  be  of  the  slightest  use  in  assisting 
Sir  Patrick  to  trace  Miss  Silvester,  under  present  circumstances. 
There  was — unhappily — no  temptation  to  induce  him  to  break 
the  honorable  silence  which  he  had  maintained  thus  far.  And 
— more  unfortunately  still — assuming  the  temptation  to  pi*esent 
itself,  Arnold's  capacity  to  resist  it  had  never  been  so  strong  a 
capacity  as  it  was  now. 

To  the  two  powerful  motives  which  had  hitherto  tied  his 
tongue — respect  for  Anne's  reputation,  and  reluctance  to  re- 
veal to  Blanche  the  deception  which  he  had  been  compelled  to 
practice  on  her  at  the  inn — to  these  two  motives  there  was 
now  added  a  third.  The  meanness  of  betraying  the  confidence 
which  Geoffrey  had  reposed  in  him  would  be  doubled  meanness 
if  he  proved  false  to  his  trust  after  Geoffrey  had  personally  in- 
suited  him.  The  paltry  revenge  which  that  false  friend  had 
unhesitatingly  suspected  him  of  taking  was  a  revenge  of  which 
Arnold's  nature  was  simply  incapable.  Never  had  his  lips 
been  more  effectually  sealed  than  at  this  moment — when  his 
wnoie  future  depended  on  Sir  Patrick's  discovering  the  part 
that  he  had  played  in  past  events  at  Craig  Fernie. 

Yes  !  yes  !"  resumed  Sir  Patrick,  impatiently.  "  Blanche's 
aiscress  is  intelligible  enough.  But  here  is  my  niece  apparent- 
ly answerable  for  this  unhappy  woman's  disappearance.  Can 
you  explain  what  my  niece  has  got  to  do  with  it  ?" 


MAN    AND    WIFE.  261 

"  I !  Blanche  herself  is  completely  mystified.  How  should 
J  know?" 

Answering  in  those  terms,  he  spoke  with  perfect  sincerit3^ 
Anne's  vague  distrust  of  the  position  in  which  they  had  inno- 
cently placed  themselves  at  the  inn  had  produced  no  corre- 
sponding effect  on  Arnold  at  the  time.  He  had  not  regarded 
it;  he  had  not  even  understood  it.  As  a  necessary  result,  not 
the  faintest  suspicion  of  the  motive  under  which  Anne  was  act- 
ing existed  in  his  mind  now. 

Sir  Patrick  put  the  letter  into  his  pocket-book,  and  abandoned 
all  further  attempt  at  interpreting  the  meaning  of  it  in  despair. 

"Enough,  and  more  than  enough,  of  groping  in  the  dark," 
he  said.  "  One  point  is  clear  to  me,  after  what  has  happened 
up  stairs  this  morning.  We  must  accept  the  position  in  v/hich 
Miss  Silvester  has  placed  us.  I  shall  give  up  all  further  effort 
to  trace  her  from  this  moment." 

"Surely  that  will  be  a  dreadful  disappointment  to  Blanche, 
Sir  Patrick?" 

"I  don't  deny  it.     We  must  face  that  result." 

"If  you  are  sure  there  is  nothing  else  to  be  done,  I  suppose 
we  must." 

"  I  am  not  sure  of  any  thing  of  the  sort.  Master  Arnold  ! 
There  are  two  chances  still  left  of  throwing  light  on  this  mat- 
ter, which  are  both  of  them  independent  of  any  thing  that  Miss 
Silvester  can  do  to  keep  it  in  the  dark." 

"Then  why  not  try  them,  sir  ?  It  seems  hard  to  drop  Miss 
Silvester  when  she  is  in  trouble." 

"We  cau't  help  her  against  her  own  will,"  rejoined  Sir  Pat- 
rick. "And  Ave  can't  run  the  risk,  after  that  nervous  attack 
this  morning,  of  subjecting  Blanche  to  any  further  suspense. 
I  have  thought  of  my  niece's  interests  throughout  this  busi- 
ness ;  and  if  I  now  change  ray  mind,  and  decline  to  agitate  her 
by  more  experiments,  ending  (quite  possibly)  in  more  failures, 
it  is  because  I  am  thinking  of  her  interests  still.  I  liave  no 
other  motive.  However  numerous  my  weaknesses  may  be, 
ambition  to  distinguish  myself  as  a  detective  policeman  is  not 
one  of  them.  The  case,  from  the  police  point  of  view,  is  by  no 
means  a  lost  case.  I  drop  it,  nevertheless,  for  Blanche's  sake. 
Instead  of  encouraging  her  thoughts  to  dwell  on  this  melan- 
choly business,  we  must  apply  the  remedy  suggested  by  our 
medical  friend." 

"  How  is  that  to  be  done  ?"  asked  Arnold. 

The  sly  twdst  of  humor  began  to  show  itself  in  Sir  Patrick's 
face. 

"Has  she  nothing  to  think  of  in  the  future,  which  is  a  pleas- 
anter  subject  of  reflection  than  the  loss  of  her  friend  ?"  he  ask- 
ed.    "To?<  are  interested,  my  young  gentleman,  in  the  remedy 


262  MAN    AND    WIFE, 

that  is  to  cure  Blanclie.  You  are  one  of  the  drugs  in  the 
moral  prescription.     Can  j^ou  guess  what    t  is  ?" 

Arnold  started  to  his  feet,  and  brightened  into  a  new  being. 

"  Perhaps  you  object  to  be  hurried  ?"  said  Sir  Patrick. 

"  Object !  If  Blanche  will  only  consent,  I'll  take  her  to 
church  as  soon  as  she  comes  down  stairs  !" 

"  Thank  you  !"  said  Sir  Patrick,  dryly.  "  Mr.  Arnold  Brink- 
worth,  may  you  always  be  as  ready  to  take  Time  by  the  fore- 
lock as  you  are  now  !  Sit  down  again  :  and  don't  talk  non- 
sense. It  is  just  possible — if  Blanclie  consents  (as  you  say), 
and  if  we  can  hurry  the  lawyei's — that  you  may  be  married  in 
three  weeks'  or  a  montli's  time." 

"What  have  the  lawyers  got  to  do  with  it?" 

"My  good  fellow,  this  is  not  a  marriage  in  a  novel  !  This 
is  the  most  unromantic  affair  of  the  sort  that  ever  happened. 
Here  are  a  young  gentleman  and  a  young  lady,  both  rich  peo- 
ple, botli  well  matched  in  birtli  and  character ;  one  of  age, 
and  the  other  marrying  witli  the  full  consent  and  approval  of 
her  guardian.  What  is  the  consequence  of  this  purely  prosaic 
state  of  things  ?     Lawyers  and  settlements,  of  course  !" 

"  Come  into  the  library,  Sir  Patrick  ;  and  I'll  soon  settle  the 
settlements  !  A  bit  of  paper,  and  a  dip  of  ink.  '  I  hereby 
give  every  blessed  farthing  I  have  got  in  the  Avorld  to  my  dear 
Blanche.'  Sign  that ;  stick  a  wafer  on  at  the  side  ;  clap  your 
finger  on  the  wafer;  '  I  deliver  this  as  my  act  and  deed  ;'  and 
there  it  is — done  !" 

"Is  it,  really  ?  You  are  a  born  legislator.  You  create  and 
codify  ypur  own  system  all  in  a  breath.  Moses-Justinian-Mo- 
hammed, give  me  yoiu-  arni  !  There  is  one  atom  of  sense  in 
what  you  have  just  said.  '  Come  into  the  library' — is  a  sug- 
gestion worth  attending  to.  Do  j'ou  happen,  among  your 
other  superfluities,  to  have  such  a  thing  as  a  lawyer  about 
you .'"' 

"  I  have  got  two.     One  in  London,  and  one  in  Edinburgh." 

"We  will  take  the  nearest  of  the  two,  because  v/e  are  in  a 
hurry.  Who  is  the  Edinburgh  lawyer?  Pringle  of  Pitt 
Street  ?  Couldn't  be  a  better  man.  Come  and  write  to  him. 
You  have  given  me  your  abstract  of  a  marriage  settlement 
with  the  brevity  of  an  ancient  Roman.  I  scorn  to  be  outdone 
by  an  amateur  lawyer.  Here  is  mi/  abstract:  you  are  just 
and  genei'ous  to  Blanche  ;  Blanche  is  just  and  generous  to 
you  ;  and  you  both  combine  to  be  just  and  generous  together 
to  your  children.  There  is  a  model  settlement  !  and  there  are 
your  instructions  to  Pringle  of  Pitt  Street !  Can  you  do  it  by 
yourself?  No;  of  course  you  can't.  Now  don't  be  slovenly- 
minded  !  See  the  points  in  their  order  as  they  come.  You 
are  going  to  be  njari-ied  ;  you  state  to  whom  ;  you  add  that  I 


MAN    AND    WIFE.  263 

am  the  lady's  guardian ;  you  give  tlie  name  and  address  of  my 
lawyer  in  Edinburgh  ;  you  write  your  instructions  plainly  in 
the  fewest  words,  and  leave  details  to  your  legal  adviser ;  you 
refer  the  lawyers  to  each  other ;  you  request  that  the  draft 
settlements  be  prepared  as  speedily  as  possible  ;  and  you  give 
your  address  at  this  house.  There  are  the  heads.  Can't  you 
do  it  now  ?  Oh,  the  rising  generation  !  Oh  !  the  progress  we 
are  making  in  these  enlightened  modern  times  !  There  !  there  ! 
you  can  marry  Blanche,  and  make  her  happy,  and  increase  the 
population — and  all  without  knowing  how  to  write  the  En- 
glish language.  One  can  only  say  with  the  learned  Bevoris- 
kius,  looking  out  of  his  window  at  the  illimitable  loves  of  the 
sparrows,  '  How  merciful  is  Heaven  to  its  creatures  !'  Take 
up  the  pen.     I'll  dictate  !     I'll  dictate  !" 

Sir  Patrick  read  the  letter  over,  approved  of  it,  and  saw  it 
safe  in  the  box  for  the  post.  This  done,  he  pei-emptorily  for- 
bade Arnold  to  speak  to  his  niece  on  the  subject  of  the  mar- 
riage without  his  express  permission.  "  There's  somebody 
else's  consent  to  be  got,"  he  said,  "  besides  Blanche's  consent 
and  mine." 

"  Lady  Lundie  ?" 

"  Lady  Lundie.  Strictly  speaking,  I  am  the  only  authority. 
But  my  sister-in-law  is  Blanche's  stepmother,  and  she  is  ap- 
pointed guardian  in  the  event  of  my  death.  She  has  a  right 
to  be  consulted — in  courtesy,  if  not  in  law.  Would  you  like 
to  do  it  ?" 

Arnold's  face  fell.  He  looked  at  Sir  Patrick  in  silent  dis- 
may. 

"  What !  you  can't  even  speak  to  such  a  perfectly  pliable  per- 
son as  Lady  Lundie  ?  You  may  have  been  a  very  useful  fel- 
low at  sea.  A  more  helpless  young  man  I  never  met  with  on 
shore.  Get  out  with  you  into  the  garden  among  the  other 
sparrows !  Somebody  must  confront  her  ladyship.  And  if 
you  won't — I  must." 

He  pushed  Arnold  out  of  the  libraiy,  and  applied  meditative- 
ly to  the  knob  of  his  cane.  His  gayety  disappeared,  now  that 
he  was  alone.  His  experience  of  Lady  Lundie's  character  told 
him  that,  in  attempting  to  win  her  approval  to  any  scheme  for 
hurrying  Blanche's  marriage,  he  was  undertaking  no  easy  task. 
"  I  suppose,"  mused  Sir  Patrick,  thinking  of  his  late  brother — 
"  I  suppose  poor  Tom  had  some  way  of  managing  her.  How 
did  he  do  it,  I  wonder  ?  If  she  had  been  the  wife  of  a  brick- 
layer, she  is  the  sort  of  woman  who  would  have  been  kept  in 
perfect  order  by  a  vigorous  and  regular  application  of  her 
husband's  fist.  But  Tom  wasn't  a  bricklayer.  I  wonder  how 
Tom  did  it  ?"  After  a  little  hard  thinking  on  this  point.  Sir 
Patrick  gave  up  the  problem  as  beyond  human  solution.     "  It 


264  MAN    AND    WIFE. 

must  be  done,"  he  concluded.     "And  my  own  mother-wit  must 
help  me  to  do  it." 

In  that  resigned  frame  of  mind  he  knocked  at  the  door  of 
Lady  Lundie's  boudoir. 


CHAPTER  THE  TWENTY-SEVENTH. 

OUTWITTED. 

Sir  Patrick  found  his  sister-in-law  immersed  in  domestic 
business.  Her  ladyship's  correspondence  and  visiting  list; 
her  ladyship's  household  bills  and  ledgers ;  her  ladyship's 
Diary  and  Memorandum-book  (bound  in  scarlet  morocco) ; 
her  ladyship's  desk,  envelope-case,  match-box,  and  taper  can- 
dlestick (all  in  ebony  and  silver) ;  her  ladyship  herself,  presid- 
ing over  her  responsibilities,  and  wielding  her  materials,  equal 
to  any  calls  of  emergency,  beautifully  dressed  in  correct  morn- 
ing costume,  blessed  with  perfect  health  both  of  the  secretions 
and  the  principles ;  absolutely  void  of  vice,  and  formidably  full 
of  virtue,  presented,  to  every  properly -constituted  mind,  the 
most  imposing  spectacle  known  to  humanity — the  British  Ma- 
tron on  her  throne,  asking  the  world  in  general,  When  will  you 
produce  the  like  of  me  ? 

"  I  am  afraid  I  disturb  you,"  said  Sir  Patrick.  "  I  am  a  per- 
fectly idle  person.     Shall  I  look  in  a  little  later?" 

Lady  Lundie  put  her  hand  to  her  head,  and  smiled  faintly. 

"  A  little  pressure  here^  Sir  Patrick.  Pray  sit  down.  Duty 
finds  me  earnest ;  Duty  finds  me  cheerful ;  Duty  finds  me  ac- 
cessible. From  a  poor,  weak  woman,  Duty  must  expect  no 
more.  Now  what  is  it  ?"  (Her  ladyship  consulted  her  scarlet 
memorandum-book.)  "  I  have  got  it  here,  under  its  proper 
head,  distinguished  by  initial  letters.  P. — the  poor.  No.  H. 
M. — heathen  missions.  No.  V,  T.  A. — Visitors  to  arrive.  No. 
P.  L  P. — Here  it  is  :  private  interview  with  Patrick.  Will 
you  forgive  me  the  little  harmless  familiarity  of  omitting  your 
title  ?"  Thank  you  !  You  are  always  so  good.  I  am  quite 
at  your  service  when  you  like  to  begin.  If  it's  any  thing 
painful,  pray  don't  hesitate.     I  am  quite  prepared." 

With  that  intimation  her  ladyship  threw  herself  back  in  her 
chair,  with  her  elbows  on  the  arms,  and  her  fingers  joined  at 
the  tips,  as  if  she  was  receiving  a  deputation.  "  Yes  ?"  she 
said,  interrogatively.  Sir  Patrick  paid  a  private  tribute  of 
pity  to  his  late  brother's  memory,  and  entered  on  his  business. 

"  We  won't  call  it  a  painful  matter,"  he  began.  "  Let  ub 
say  it's  a  matter  of  domestic  anxiety.     Blanche — " 


MAN  AND  WIPE.  265 

Lady  Lundie  emitted  a  faint  scream,  and  put  her  hand  over 
her  eyes. 

^'■Miist  you?"  cried  her  ladyship,  in  a  tone  of  touching  re- 
monstrance.    "  Oh,  Sir  Patrick,  7nust  you?" 

"Yes;  I  must." 

Lady  Lundie's  magnificent  eyes  looked  up  at  that  hidden 
court  of  human  appeal  which  is  lodged  in  the  ceiling.  The 
hidden  court  looked  down  at  Lady  Lundie,  and  saw — Duty 
advertising  itself  in  the  largest  capital  letters. 

"  Go  on,  Sir  Patrick.  The  motto  of  woman  is  Self-sacrifice. 
You  sha'n't  see  how  you  distress  me.     Go  on." 

Sir  Patrick  went  on  impenetrabl}^ — without  betraying  the 
slightest  expression  of  sympathy  or  surprise. 

"  I  was  about  to  refer  to  the  nervous  attack  from  which 
Blanche  has  suffered  this  morning,"  he  said.  "  May  I  ask 
whether  you  have  been  informed  of  the  cause  to  which  the 
attack  is  attributable  ?" 

"  There !"  exclaimed  Lady  Lundie,  with  a  sudden  bound  in 
her  chair,  and  a  sudden  development  of  vocal  power  to  corre- 
spond. "The  one  thing  I  shrank  from  speaking  of!  the  cruel, 
cruel,  cruel  behavior  I  was  prepared  to  pass  over  !  And  Sir 
Patrick  hints  on  it!  Innocently — don't  let  me  do  an  injustice 
— innocently  hints  on  it !" 

"  Hints  on  what,  my  dear  madam  ?" 

"  Blanche's  conduct  to  me  this  morning.  Blanche's  heartless 
secrecy.  Blanche's  undutiful  silence,  I  repeat  the  words: 
Heartless  secrecy.     L^ndutiful  silence." 

"Allow  me  for  one  moment, Lady  Lundie — " 

"Allow  vie,  Sir  Patrick!  Heaven  knows  how  unwilling  I 
am  to  speak  of  it.  Heaven  knows  that  not  a  word  of  refer- 
ence to  it  escaped  my  lips.  But  you  leave  me  no  choice  now. 
As  mistress  of  the  household,  as  a  Christian  woman,  as  the 
widow  of  your  dear  brother,  as  a  mother  to  this  misguided 
girl,  I  must  state  the  facts.  I  know  you  mean  well ;  I  know 
you  wish  to  spare  me.  Quite  useless !  I  must  state  the 
facts." 

Sir  Patrick  bowed,  and  submitted.  (If  he  had  only  been  a 
bricklayer  !  and  if  Lady  Lundie  had  not  been,  what  her  lady- 
ship unquestionably  was,  the  strongest  person  of  the  two  !) 

"Permit  me  to  draw  a  veil,  for  your  sake,"  said  Lady  Lun- 
die, "  over  the  horrors — I  can  not,  with  the  best  wish  to  spare 
you,  conscientiously  call  them  by  any  other  name — the  hor- 
rors that  took  place  up  stairs.  The  moment  I  heard  that 
Blanche  Avas  ill  I  was  at  my  post.  Duty  will  always  find 
me  ready,  Sir  Patrick,  to  ray  dying  day.  Shocking  as  the 
whole  thing  was,  I  presided  calmly  over  the  screams  and  sobs 
of  my  stepdaughter.     I  closed  my  ears  to  the  profane  violence 


266  MAN   AND   WIFE. 

of  her  language,  T  set  the  necessary  example,  as  an  English 
gentlewoman  at  the  head  of  her  household.  It  was  only  when 
I  distinctly  heard  the  name  of  a  person,  never  to  be  mentioned 
:<gain  in  my  family  circle,  issue  (if  I  may  use  the  expression) 
from  Blanche's  lips  that  I  began  to  be  really  alarmed.  I  said 
to  my  maid :  '  Hopkins,  this  is  not  Hysteria.  This  is  a  posses- 
sion of  the  devil.     Fetch  the  chloroform.'" 

Chloroform,  applied  in  the  capacity  of  an  exorcism,  was  en- 
tirely new  to  Sir  Patrick.  He  preserved  his  gravity  with  con- 
siderable difficulty.     Lady  Lundie  went  on  : 

"  Plopkins  is  an  excellent  person — but  Hopkins  had  a  tongue. 
She  met  our  distinguished  medical  guest  in  the  corridor,  and 
told  him.  He  was  so  good  as  to  come  to  the  door.  I  was 
shocked  to  trouble  him  to  act  in  his  professional  capacity  while 
he  was  a  visitor,  an  honored  visitor,  in  my  house.  Besides,  I 
considered  it  more  a  case  for  a  clergyman  than  for  a  medical 
man.  However,  there  Avas  no  help  for  it  after  Hopkins's  tongue. 
I  requested  our  eminent  friend  to  favor  us  with — I  think  the 
exact  scientific  term  is — a  Prognosis.  He  took  the  purely 
material  view  which  was  only  to  be  expected  from  a  person 
in  his  profession.  He  prognosed — am  I  right  ?  Did  he  prog- 
nose? or  did  he  diagnose?  A  habit  of  speaking  correctly  is 
so  important,  Sir  Patrick !  and  I  should  be  so  grieved  to  mis- 
lead you !" 

"Never  mind.  Lady  Lundie  !  I  have  heard  the  medical  re- 
port.    Don't  trouble  yourself  to  repeat  it," 

"Don't  trouble  myself  to  repeat  it?"  echoed  Lady  Lundie, 
with  her  dignity  up  in  arms  at  the  bare  prospect  of  finding  her 
remai'ks  abridged.  "Ah,  Sir  Patrick  I  that  little  constitutional 
impatience  of  yours  !— Oh,  dear  me!  how  often  you  must  have 
given  way  to  it,  and  how  often  you  must  have  regretted  it,  in 
your  time !" 

"  My  dear  lady !  if  you  wish  to  repeat  the  report,  why  not 
say  so,  in  plain  words  ?  Don't  let  me  hurry  you.  Let  us  have 
the  prognosis,  by  all  means," 

Lady  Lundie  shook  her  head  compassionately,  and  smiied 
with  angelic  sadness,  "  Our  little  besetting  sins  !"  she  said. 
"What  slaves  we  are  to  our  little  besetting  sins!  Take  a  turn 
in  the  room — do  !" 

Any  ordinary  man  would  have  lost  his  temper.  But  the  law 
(as  Sir  Patrick  had  told  his  niece)  has  a  special  temper  of  its 
own.  Without  exhibiting  the  smallest  irritation.  Sir  Patrick 
dexterously  applied  his  sister-in-law's  blister  to  his  sister-in-law 
herself. 

"What  an  eye  you  have!"  he  said.  "I  was  impatient.  I 
am  impatient.  I  am  dying  to  know  what  Blanche  said  to  you 
when  she  ^ot  better  ?" 


MAN    AND    WrPK.  267 

The  British  Matron  froze  up  into  a  matron  of  stone  on  the 
spot. 

"  Nothing  !"  answered  her  ladyship,  with  a  vicious  snap  of 
her  teeth,  as  if  she  had  tried  to  bite  the  word  before  it  escaped 
her. 

"Nothing  !"  exclaimed  Sir  Patrick. 

"  Nothing,"  repeated  Lady  Lundie,  with  her  most  formidable 
emphasis  of  look  and  tone.  "  I  applied  all  the  remedies  with 
my  own  hands;  I  cut  her  laces  with  my  own  scissors;  I  com- 
pletely wetted  her  head  through  with  cold  water ;  I  remained 
with  her  until  she  was  quite  exhausted  ;  I  took  her  in  my  arms, 
and  folded  her  to  my  bosom  ;  I  sent  every  body  out  of  the 
room;  I  said,  'Dear  child,  confide  in  me.'  And  how  were  my 
advances — my  motherly  advances — met  ?  I  have  already  told 
you.     By  heartless  secrecy.     By  undutiful  silence." 

Sir  Patrick  pressed  the  blister  a  little  closer  to  the  skin. 
"  She  was  probably  afraid  to  speak,"  he  said. 

''  Afraid  '?  Oh  I"  cried  Lady  Lundie,  distrusting  the  evidence 
of  her  own  senses.  "  You  can't  have  said  that  ?  I  have  evident- 
ly misapprehended  you.     You  didn't  really  say  afraid?" 

"  I  said  she  was  probably  afraid — " 

"  Stop  !  I  can't  be  told  to  my  face  that  I  have  failed  to  do 
my  duty  by  Blanche.  No,  Sir  Patrick  !  I  can  bear  a  great  deal ; 
but  I  can't  bear  that.  After  having  been  more  than  a  mother 
to  your  dear  brother's  child;  after  having  been  an  elder  sister 
to  Blanche;  after  having  toiled — I  say  tolled,  Sir  Patrick  ! — to 
cultivate  her  intelligence  (with  the  sweet  lines  of  the  poet  ever 
present  to  my  memory  :  '  Delightful  task  to  I'ear  the  tender 
mind,  and  teach  the  young  idea  how  to  shoot  I") ;  after  having 
done  all  I  have  done — a  place  in  the  carriage  only  yesterday, 
and  a  visit  to  the  most  interesting  relic  of  feudal  times  in 
Perthshire — after  having  sacrificed  all  I  have  sacrificed,  to  be 
told  that  I  have  behaved  in  such  a  manner  to  Blanche  as  to 
frighten  her  when  I  ask  her  to  confide  in  me,  is  a  little  too  cruel. 
I  have  a  sensitive,  an  unduly  sensitive  nature,  dear  Sir  Patrick. 
Forgive  me  for  wincing  when  I  am  wounded.  Forgive  me  for 
feeling  it  when  the  wound  is  dealt  me  by  a  person  whom  I  re- 
vere." 

Her  ladyship  put  her  handkerchief  to  her  eyes.  Any  other 
man  would  have  taken  ofiT  the  blister.  Sir  Patrick  pressed  it 
harder  than  evei". 

"  You  quite  mistake  me,"  he  replied.  "  I  meant  that  Blanche 
was  afraid  to  tell  you  the  t"ve  cause  of  her  illness.  The  true 
cause  is  anxiety  about  Miss  Silvester." 

Lady  Lundie  emitted  another  scream — a  loud  scream  this 
time — and  closed  her  eyes  in  horror. 

"  I  can  run  out  of  the  house,"  cried  her  ladyship,  wildly.     "I 


268  MAN    AND    WIFE. 

can  fly  to  the  uttermost  corners  of  the  earth  ;  but  I  can  not  hear 
that  person's  name  mentioned  !  N'o,  Sir  Patrick !  not  in  my 
presence  !  not  in  my  room  !  not  while  I  am  mistress  at  Windy- 
gates  House  !" 

"I  am  sorry  to  say  any  thing  that  is  disagreeable  to  you, 
Lady  Lundie.  But  the  nature  of  my  errand  here  obliges  me 
to  touch — as  lightly  as  possible — on  something  which  has  hap- 
pened in  your  house  without  your  knowledge," 

Lady  Lundie  suddenly  opened  her  eyes,  and  became  the  pic- 
ture of  attention,  A  casual  observer  might  have  supposed  her 
ladyship  to  be  not  wholly  inaccessible  to  the  vulgar  emotion 
of  curiosity. 

"A  visitor  came  to  Windygates  yesterday,  while  we  were  all 
at  lunch,"  proceeded  Sir  Patrick,     "  She — " 

Lady  Lundie  seized  the  scarlet  memorandum-book,  and  stop- 
ped her  brother-in-law,  before  he  could  get  any  further.  Her 
ladyship's  next  words  escaped  her  lips  spasmodically,  like  words 
let  at  intervals  out  of  a  trap. 

"  I  undertake — as  a  woman  accustomed  to  self-restraint.  Sir 
Patrick — I  undertake  to  control  myself,  on  one  condition.  I 
won't  have  the  name  mentioned,  I  won't  have  the  sex  men- 
tioned. Say  '  The  Person,'  if  you  please.  '  The  Person,'  " 
continued  Lady  Lundie,  opening  her  memorandum-book  and 
taking  up  her  pen,  "  committed  an  audacious  invasion  of  my 
premises  yesterday !" 

Sir  Patrick  bowed.  Her  ladyship  made  a  note — a  fiercely- 
penned  note  that  scratched  the  paper  viciously — and  then  pro- 
ceeded to  examine  her  brother-in-law,  in  the  capacity  of  witness. 

"  What  part  of  my  house  did  '  The  Person'  invade  ?  Be  very 
careful.  Sir  Patrick !  I  pi-opose  to  place  myself  under  the  pro- 
tection of  a  justice  of  the  peace;  and  this  is  a  memorandum 
of  my  statement.  The  library — did  I  understand  you  to  say  ? 
Just  so — the  library." 

"Add,"  said  Sir  Patrick,  wdth  another  pressure  on  the  blis- 
ter, "  that  The  Person  had  an  interview  with  Blanche  in  the 
library." 

Lady  Lundie's  pen  suddenly  stuck  in  the  paper,  and  scattered 
a  little  shower  of  ink-drops  all  round  it.  "The  library,"  repeat- 
ed her  ladyship  in  a  voice  suggestive  of  approaching  suffoca- 
tion. "  I  undertake  to  control  myself.  Sir  Patrick  !  Any  thing 
missing  from  the  library  ?" 

"  Nothing  missing,  Lady  Lundie,  but  The  Person  herself. 
She—" 

"  No,  Sir  Patrick  !  I  won't  have  it !  In  the  name  of  my 
own  sex,  I  won't  have  it !" 

"  Pray  pardon  me — I  forgot  that  '  she '  was  a  prohibited  pro- 
noun on  the  present  occasion.     The  Person  has  written  a  fare- 


MAN    AND    WIFH.  269 

well  letter  to  Blanche,  and  has  gone  nobody  knows  where. 
The  distress  produced  by  these  events  is  alone  answerable  for 
what  has  happened  to  Blanche  this  morning.  If  you  bear  that 
in  mind — and  if  you  remember  what  your  own  opinion  is  of 
Miss  Silvester — you  will  understand  why  Blanche  hesitated  to 
admit  you  into  her  confidence." 

There  he  waited  for  a  reply.  Lady  Lundie  was  too  deeply 
absorbed  in  completing  her  memorandum  to  be  conscious  of 
his  presence  in  the  room. 

" '  Carriage  to  be  at  the  door  at  two-thirty,'  "  said  Lady 
Lundie,  i-epeating  the  final  words  of  the  memorandum  while 
she  wrote  them.  "  '  Inquire  for  the  nearest  justice  of  the  peace, 
and  place  the  privacy  of  Wiudygates  under  the  protection  of 
the  law.' — I  beg  your  pardon  !"  exclaimed  her  ladyship,  be- 
coming conscious  again  of  Sir  Patrick's  presence.  "  Have  I 
missed  any  thing  particularly  painful  ?  Pray  mention  it  if  I 
have  !" 

"  You  have  missed  nothing  of  the  slightest  importance,"  re- 
turned Sir  Patrick.  "  I  have  placed  you  in  possession  of  facts 
which  you  had  a  right  to  know  ;  and  we  have  now  only  to  re- 
turn to  our  medical  friend's  report  on  Blanche's  health.  You 
were  about  to  favor  me,  I  think,  with  the  Prognosis  '?" 

"  Diagnosis  !"  said  her  ladyship,  spitefully.  "  I  had  forgot- 
ten at  the  time  —  I  remember  now.  Prognosis  is  entirely 
wrong." 

"I  sit  corrected, Lady  Lundie.     Diagnosis." 

"  You  have  informed  me,  Sir  Patrick,  that  you  were  already 
acquainted  with  the  Diagnosis.  It  is  quite  needless  for  me  to 
repeat  it  now." 

"  I  was  anxious  to  correct  my  own  impression,  my  dear 
lady,  by  comparing  it  with  yours." 

"  You  are  very  good.  You  are  a  learned  man.  I  am  only  a 
poor  ignorant  woman.  Your  impression  can  not  possibly  re- 
quire correcting  by  mine." 

"  My  impression,  Lady  Lundie,  was  that  our  friend  recom- 
mended moral,  rather  than  medical,  treatment  for  Blanche. 
If  we  can  turn  her  thoughts  from  the  painful  subject  on  which 
they  are  now  dwelling,  we  shall  do  all  that  is  needful.  Those 
were  his  own  words,  as  I  remember  them.  Do  you  confirm 
me?" 

"Can  jT  presume  to  dispute  with  you,  Sir  Patrick?  You 
are  a  master  of  refined  irony,  I  know.  I  am  afraid  it's  all 
thrown  away  on  poor  me." 

(The  law  kept  its  wonderful  temper !  The  law  met  the 
most  exasperating  of  living  women  with  a  counter-power  of 
defensive  aggravation  all  its  own  !) 

"  I  take  that  as  confirming  me,  Lady  Lundie.     Thank  you. 


2*70  MAN   AND   WIPE. 

Now  as  to  the  method  of  carrying  out  our  friend's  advice. 
The  method  seems  plain.  All  we  can  do  to  divert  Blanche's 
mind  is  to  turn  Blanche's  attention  to  some  other  subject  of 
reflection  less  painful  than  the  subject  which  occupies  her 
now.     Do  you  agree,  so  far  ?" 

"  Why  place  the  whole  responsibility  on  my  shoulders  ?"  in- 
quired Lady  Lundie. 

"  Out  of  profound  deference  for  your  opinion,"  answered  Sir 
Patrick.  "  Strictly  speaking,  no  doubt,  any  serious  responsi- 
bility rests  with  me.     I  am  Blanche's  guardian — " 

"Thank  God  !"  cried  Lady  Lundie,  with  a  perfect  explosion 
of  pious  fervor, 

"  I  hear  an  outburst  of  devout  thankfulness,"  remarked  Sir 
Patrick.  "Am  I  to  take  it  as  expressing — let  me  say — some 
little  doubt,  on  your  part,  as  to  the  prospect  of  managing 
Blanche  successfully,  under  present  circumstances  ?" 

Lady  Lundie's  temper  began  to  give  way  again — exactly  as 
her  brother-in-law  had  anticipated. 

"  You  are  to  take  it,"  she  said,  "  as  expressing  my  conviction 
that  I  saddled  myself  with  the  charge  of  an  incorrigibly  heart- 
less, obstinate,  and  perverse  girl,  when  I  undertook  the  care 
of  Blanche." 

"  Did  you  say  '  incorrigibly  ?'  " 

"  I  said  '  incorrigibly.' " 

"If  the  case  is  as  hopeless  as  that,  ray  dear  Madam  —  as 
Blanche's  guardian,  1  ought  to  find  means  to  relieve  you  of  the 
charge  of  Blanche." 

"Nobody  shall  relieve  me  of  a  duty  that  I  have  once  under- 
taken !"  retorted  Lady  Lundie.     "Not  if  I  die  at  my  post !" 

"Suppose  it  was  consistent  with  your  duty,"  pleaded  Sir 
Patrick,  "  to  be  relieved  at  your  post  ?  Suppose  it  was  in 
harmony  with  that  '  self-  sacrifice '  which  is  '  the  motto  of 
women  ?' " 

"  I  don't  understand  you,  Sir  Patrick.  Be  so  good  as  to  ex- 
plain yourself" 

Sir  Patrick  assumed  a  new  character  —  the  character  of  a 
hesitating  man.  He  cast  a  look  of  respectful  inquiry  at  his 
sister-in-law,  sighed,  and  shook  his  head. 

"  No !"  he  said.  "  It  would  be  asking  too  much.  Even 
with  your  high  standard  of  duty,  it  would  be  asking  too 
much." 

"  Nothing  which  you  can  ask  me  in  the  name  of  duty  is  too 
much." 

"  No !  no !  Let  me  remind  you.  Human  nature  has  its 
limits." 

"A  Christian  gentlewoman's  sense  of  duty  knows  no  limits." 

"  Oh,  surely  yes  !" 


MAN    AND    WIFE.  271 

"  Sir  Patrick !  after  what  I  have  just  said,  your  perseverance 
in  doubting  me  amounts  to  something  like  an  insult !" 

"  Don't  say  that !  Let  me  put  a  case.  Let  us  suppose  the 
future  interests  of  another  person  to  depend  on  your  saying 
Yes  —  when  all  your  own  most  cherished  ideas  and  opinions 
urge  you  to  say  No.  Do  you  really  mean  to  tell  me  that  you 
could  trample  your  own  convictions  under  foot,  if  it  could  be 
shown  that  the  purely  abstract  consideration  of  duty  was  in- 
volved in  the  sacrifice?" 

"  Yes  !"  cried  Lady  Lundie,  mounting  the  pedestal  of  her 
virtue  on  the  spot.     "  Yes — without  a  moment's  hesitation  !" 

"  I  sit  corrected.  Lady  Lundie.  You  embolden  me  to  pro- 
ceed. Allow  me  to  ask  (after  what  I  have  just  heard) — wheth- 
er it  is  not  your  duty  to  act  on  advice  given  for  Blanche's 
benefit,  by  one  of  the  highest  medical  authorities  in  England  ?" 

Her  ladyship  admitted  that  it  was  her  duty;  pending  a  more 
favorable  opportunity  for  contradicting  her  brother-in-law. 

"  Very  good,"  pursued  Sir  Patrick.  "Assuming  that  Blanche 
is  like  most  other  human  beings,  and  has  some  prospect  of 
happiness  to  contemplate,  if  she  could  only  be  made  to  see  it 
— are  we  not  bound  to  make  her  see  it,  by  our  moral  obliga- 
tion to  act  on  the  medical  advice?"  He  cast  a  courteously- 
persuasive  look  at  her  ladyship,  and  paused  in  the  most  inno- 
cent manner  for  a  reply. 

If  Lady  Lundie  had  not  been  bent — thanks  to  the  irritation 
fomented  by  her  brother-in-law — on  disputing  the  ground  with 
him,  inch  by  inch,  she  must  have  seen  signs,  by  this  time,  of 
the  snare  that  was  being  set  for  her.  As  it  was,  she  saw  noth- 
ing but  the  opportunity  of  disparaging  Blanche  and  contra- 
dicting Sir  Patrick. 

"  If  my  stepdaughter  had  any  such  prospect  as  you  describe," 
she  answered,  "  I  should  of  course  say  Yes.  But  Blanche's  is 
an  ill-regulated  mind.  An  ill-regulated  mind  has  no  prospect 
of  happiness." 

"  Pardon  me,"  said  Sir  Patrick.  "  Blanche  has  a  prospect 
of  happiness.  In  other  words,  Blanche  has  a  prospect  of  being 
married.  And,  what  is  more,  Arnold  Brinkworth  is  ready  to 
marry  her  as  soon  as  the  settlements  can  be  prepared." 

Lady  Lundie  started  in  her  chair — turned  crimson  with  rage 
— and  opened  her  lips  to  speak.  Sir  Patrick  rose  to  his  feet, 
and  went  on  before  she  could  utter  a  word. 

"  I  beg  to  relieve  you,  Lady  Lundie — by  means  which  you 
have  just  acknowledged  it  to  be  your  duty  to  accept — of  all 
further  charge  of  an  incorrigible  girl.  As  Blanche's  guardian, 
I  have  the  honor  of  proposing  that  her  marriage  be  advanced 
to  a  day  to  be  hereafter  named  in  the  first  fortnight  of  the  eij- 
guing  month." 


272  MAN   AND   WIFE. 

In  those  words  he  closed  the  trap  which  he  had  set  for  his 

sister-in-law,  and  waited  to  see  what  came  of  it. 

A  thoroughly  spiteful  woman,  thoroughly  roused,  is  capable 
of  subordinating  every  other  consideration  to  the  one  impera- 
tive necessity  of  gratifying  her  spite.  There  was  but  one  way 
now  of  turning  the  tables  on  Sir  Patrick — and  Lady  Lundie 
took  it.  She  hated  him,  at  that  moment,  so  intensely,  that  not 
even  the  assertion  of  her  own  obstinate  will  promised  her  more 
than  a  tame  satisfaction,  by  comparison  with  the  priceless  en- 
joyment of  beating  her  brother-in-law  with  his  own  weapons. 

"  My  dear  Sir  Patrick  !"  she  said,  with  a  little  silvery  laugh, 
*'  you  have  wasted  much  precious  time  and  many  eloquent 
words  in  trying  to  entrap  me  into  giving  my  consent,  when 
you  might  have  had  it  for  the  asking.  I  think  the  idea  of  has- 
tening Blanche's  marriage  an  excellent  one.  I  am  charmed  to 
transfer  the  charge  of  such  a  person  as  my  stepdaughter  to 
the  unfortunate  young  man  who  is  willing  to  take  her  off  my 
hands.  The  less  he  sees  of  Blanche's  character  the  more  satis- 
fied I  shall  feel  of  his  performing  his  engagement  to  marry  her. 
Pray  hurry  the  lawyers.  Sir  Patrick,  and  let  it  be  a  week  soon- 
er rather  than  a  week  later,  if  you  wish  to  please  Me." 

Her  ladyship  rose  in  her  grandest  proportions,  and  made  a 
courtesy  which  was  nothing  less  than  a  triumph  of  polite  satire 
in  dumb  show.  Sir  Patrick  answered  by  a  profound  bow  and 
a  smile  which  said,  eloquently,  "  I  believe  every  word  of  that 
charming  answer.     Admirable  woman — adieu  !" 

So  the  one  person  in  the  family  circle,  whose  opposition 
might  have  forced  Sir  Patrick  to  submit  to  a  timely  delay, 
was  silenced  by  adroit  management  of  the  vices  of  her  own 
character.  So,  in  despite  of  herself,  Lady  Lundie  was  won 
over  to  the  project  for  hurrying  the  marriage  of  Arnold  and 
Blanche. 


CHAPTER  THE  TWENTY-EIGHTH. 

STIFLED. 

It  is  the  nature  of  Truth  to  struggle  to  the  light.  In  more 
than  one  direction,  the  truth  strove  to  pierce  the  overlying 
darkness,  and  to  reveal  itself  to  view,  during  the  interval  be- 
tween the  date  of  Sir  Patrick's  victory  and  the  date  of  the 
wedding-day. 

Signs  of  perturbation  under  the  surface,  suggestive  of  some 
hidden  influence  at  w^ork,  were  not  wanting,  as  the  time  passed 
on.  The  one  thing  missing  was  the  prophetic  faculty  that 
could  read  those  signs  aright  at  Windygates  House. 


MAN    AND    WIFE.  275 

On  the  very  day  when  Sir  Patrick's  dexterous  treatment  of 
his  sister-in-law  had  smoothed  the  way  to  the  hastening  of  the 
marriage,  an  obstacle  was  raised  to  the  new  arrangement  by 
no  less  a  person  than  Blanche  herself.  She  had  sufficiently 
recovered,  toward  noon,  to  be  able  to  receive  Arnold  in  her 
own  little  sitting-room.  It  proved  to  be  a  very  brief  inter- 
view. A  quarter  of  an  hour  later,  Arnold  appeared  before  Sir 
Patrick — while  the  old  gentleman  was  sunning  himself  in  the 
warden — with  a  face  of  blank  despair.  Blanche  had  indig- 
nantly declined  even  to  think  of  such  a  thing  as  her  marriage, 
at  a  time  when  she  was  heart-broken  by  the  discovery  that 
Anne  had  left  her  forevei'. 

"  You  gave  me  leave  to  mention  it,  Sir  Patrick — didn't  you?" 
said  Arnold. 

Sir  Patrick  shifted  round  a  little,  so  as  to  get  the  sun  on  his 
back,  and  admitted  that  he  had  given  leave. 

"  If  I  had  only  known,  I  would  rather  have  cut  my  tongue 
out  than  have  said  a  word  about  it.  What  do  you  think  she 
did  '?    She  burst  out  crying,  and  ordered  me  to  leave  the  room." 

It  was  a  lovely  morning — a  cool  breeze  tempered  the  heat 
of  the  sun  ;  the  birds  were  singing ;  the  garden  wore  its  bright- 
est look.  Sir  Patrick  was  supremely  comfortable.  The  little 
wearisome  vexations  of  this  mortal  life  had  retired  to  a  re- 
spectful distance  from  him.  He  positively  declined  to  invite 
them  to  come  any  nearer. 

"  Here  is  a  world,"  said  the  old  gentleman,  getting  the  sun 
a  little  more  broadly  on  his  back,  "  which  a  merciful  Creator 
has  filled  with  lovely  sights,  harmonious  sounds,  delicious 
scents ;  and  here  are  creatures  with  faculties  expressly  made 
for  enjoyment  of  those  sights,  sounds,  and  scents — to  say  noth- 
ing of  Love,  Dinner,  and  Sleep,  all  thrown  into  the  bargain. 
And  these  same  creatures  hate,  starve,  toss  sleepless  on  their 
pillows,  see  nothing  pleasant,  hear  nothing  pleasant,  smell 
nothing  pleasant — cry  bitter  tears,  say  hard  words,  contract 
painful  illnesses ;  wither,  sink,  age,  die  !  What  does  it  mean, 
Arnold  ?     And  how  much  longer  is  it  all  to  go  on  ?" 

The  fine  connecting  link  between  the  blindness  of  Blanche 
to  the  advantage  of  being  married,  and  the  blindness  of  hu- 
manity to  the  advantage  of  being  in  existence,  though  suffi- 
ciently perceptible,  no  doubt,  to  venerable  Philosophy  ripening 
in  the  sun,  was  absolutely  invisible  to  Arnold.  He  deliberate- 
ly dropped  the  vast  question  opened  by  Sir  Patrick,  and,  re- 
verting to  Blanche,  asked  what  was  to  be  done. 

"What  do  you  do  with  a  fire,  when  you  can't  extinguish 
it  ?"  said  Sir  Patrick.  "  You  let  it  blaze  till  it  goes  out. 
What  do  you  do  with  a  woman  when  you  can't  pacify  her? 
Jjet  Jwr  blaze  till  she  goes  out." 


276  MAN   AND   WIPE. 

Arnold  failed  to  see  the  wisdom  embodied  in  that  excellent 
advice.  "  I  thought  you  would  have  helped  me  to  put  things 
right  with  Blanche,"  he  said. 

"I  am  helping  you.  Let  Blanche  alone.  Don't  speak  of 
the  marriage  again,  the  next  time  you  see  her.  If  she  men- 
tions it,  beg  her  pardon,  and  tell  her  you  won't  press  the  ques- 
tion any  more.  I  shall  see  her  in  an  hour  or  two,  and  I  shall 
take  exactly  the  same  tone  myself.  You  have  put  the  idea 
into  her  mind — leave  it  there  to  ripen.  Give  her  distress  about 
Miss  Silvester  nothing  to  feed  on.  Don't  stimulate  it  by  con- 
tradiction ;  don't  rouse  it  to  defend  itself  by  disparagement 
of  her  lost  friend.  Leave  Time  to  edge  her  gently  nearer  and 
nearer  to  the  husband  M'ho  is  waiting  for  her — and  take  my  word 
for  it, Time  will  have  her  ready  when  the  settlements  are  ready." 

Toward  the  luncheon  hour  Sir  Patrick  saw  Blanche,  and  put 
in  practice  the  principle  Avhich  he  had  laid  down.  She  was 
perfectly  tranquil  before  her  uncle  left  her.  A  little  later,  Ar- 
nold was  forgiven.  A  little  later  still,  the  old  gentleman's 
sharp  observation  noted  that  his  niece  was  unusually  thought- 
ful, and  that  she  looked  at  Arnold,  from  time  to  time,  with  an 
interest  of  a  new  kind — an  interest  which  shyly  hid  itself  from 
Arnold's  view.  Sir  Patrick  went  up  to  dress  for  dinner,  with 
a  comfortable  inner  conviction  that  the  diiEculties  -which  had 
beset  him  were  settled  at  last.  Sir  Patrick  had  never  been 
more  mistaken  in  his  life. 

The  business  of  the  toilet  was  far  advanced.  Duncan  had 
just  placed  the  glass  in  a  good  light ;  and  Duncan's  master 
was  at  that  turning-point  in  his  daily  life  which  consisted  in 
attaining  or  not  attaining,  absolute  perfection  in  the  tying  of 
his  white  cravat — when  some  outer  barbarian,  ignorant  of  the 
first  principles  of  dressing  a  gentleman's  throat,  presumed  to 
knock  at  the  bedroom  door.  Neither  master  nor  servant 
moved  or  breathed  until  the  integrity  of  the  cravat  was 
placed  beyond  the  reach  of  accident.  Then  Sir  Patrick  cast 
the  look  of  final  criticism  in  the  glass,  and  breathed  again  when 
he  saw  that  it  was  done. 

"A  little  labored  in  style,  Duncan.  But  not  bad,  consider- 
ing the  interruption  ?" 

"  By  no  means,  Sir  Patrick." 

"  See  who  it  is." 

Duncan  went  to  the  door,  and  returned  to  his  master,  with 
an  excuse  for  the  interruption,  in  the  shape  of  a  telegram  ! 

Sir  Patrick  started  at  the  sight  of  that  unwelcome  message. 
"Sign  the  receipt,  Duncan,"  he  said — and  opened  the  envelope. 
Yes !  Exactly  as  he  had  anticipated  !  News  of  Miss  Silves' 
ter,  on  the  very  day  when  he  had  decided  to  abandon  all  fur- 
ther attempt  at  discovering  her.     The  telegram  ran  thus-' 


MAN   AND   "WIFE.  27T 

"Message  received  from  Falkirk  this  morning.  Lady,  as 
described,  left  the  train  at  Falkirk  last  night.  Went  on,  by 
the  tirst  train  this  mornnig,  to  Glasgow.  Wait  further  in- 
structions." 

"  Is  the  messenger  to  take  any  thing  back,  Sir  Patrick  ?" 

"  No.  I  must  consider  what  I  am  to  do.  If  I  find  it  neces- 
sary, I  will  send  to  the  station.  Here  is  news  of  Miss  Silves- 
ter, Duncan,"  continued  Sir  Patrick,  when  the  messenger  had 
gone.     "She  has  been  traced  to  Glasgow." 

"  Glasgow  is  a  large  place.  Sir  Patrick." 

"Yes.  Even  if  they  have  telegraphed  on  and  had  her 
watched  (which  doesn't  appear),  she  may  escape  us  again  at 
Glasgow.  I  am  the  last  man  in  the  world,  I  hope,  to  shrink 
from  accepting  my  fair  share  of  any  responsibility.  But  I 
own  I  would  have  given  something  to  have  kept  this  tele- 
gram out  of  the  house.  It  raises  the  most  awkward  question 
I  have  had  to  decide  on  for  many  a  long  day  past.  Help  me 
on  with  my  coat.     I  must  think  of  it !     I  must  think  of  it !" 

Sir  Patrick  went  down  to  dinner  in  no  agreeable  frame  of 
mind.  The  unexpected  recovery  of  the  lost  trace  of  Miss  Sil- 
vester— there  is  no  disguising  it — seriously  annoyed  him. 

The  dinner-party  that  day,  assembling  punctually  at  the 
stroke  of  the  bell,  had  to  wait  a  quarter  of  an  hour  before  the 
hostess  came  down  stairs. 

Lady  Lundie's  apology,  when  she  entered  the  library,  in- 
formed her  guests  that  she  had  been  detained  by  some  neigh- 
bors who  had  called  at  an  unusually  late  hour.  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Julius  Delamayn,  finding  themselves  near  Windygates,  had 
favored  her  with  a  visit,  on  their  way  home,  and  had  left  cards 
of  invitation  for  a  garden-party  at  their  house. 

Lady  Lundie  was  charmed  with  her  new  acquaintances. 
They  had  included  every  body  who  was  staying  at  Windy- 
gates  in  their  invitation.  They  had  been  as  pleasant  and  easy 
as  old  friends.  Mrs.  Delamayn  had  brought  the  kindest  mes- 
sage from  one  of  her  guests — Mrs.  Glenarm — to  say  that  she 
remembered  meeting  Lady  Lundie  in  London,  in  the  time  of 
the  late  Sir  Thomas,  and  was  anxious  to  improve  the  acquaint- 
ance. Mr.  Julius  Delamayn  had  given  a  most  amusing  ac- 
count of  his  brother.  Geoffrey  had  sent  to  London  for  a  train- 
er ;  and  the  whole  household  was  on  the  tiptoe  of  expectation 
to  witness  the  magnificent  spectacle  of  an  athlete  preparing 
himself  for  a  foot-race.  The  ladies,  with  Mrs.  Glenarm  at  their 
head,  were  hard  at  work,  studying  the  profound  and  compli- 
cated question  of  human  running — the  muscles  employed  in  it, 
the  preparation  required  for  it,  the  heroes  eminent  in  it.  The 
men  had  been  all  occupied  that  morning  in  assisting  Geoffrey 
to  measure  a  mile,  for  his  exercising-ground,  in  a  remote  part 


2 'J' 8  MAN    AND   WIFB. 

of  the  park  —  where  there  was  an  empty  cottage,  which  wai 
to  be  fitted  with  all  the  necessary  appliances  for  the  reception 
of  Geoffrey  and  his  trainer.  "  You  will  see  the  last  of  my 
brother,"  Julius  had  said,  "  at  the  garden-party.  After  that 
he  retires  into  athletic  privacy,  and  has  but  one  interest  in  life 
— the  interest  of  watching  the  disappearance  of  his  own  super- 
fluous flesh."  Throughout  the  dinner  Lady  Lundie  was  in  op- 
pressively good  spirits,  singing  the  praises  of  her  new  friends. 
Sir  Patrick,  on  the  other  hand,  had  never  been  so  silent  within 
the  memory  of  mortal  man.  He  talked  with  an  effort ;  and  he 
listened  with  a  greater  effort  still.  To  answer  or  not  to  an- 
swer the  telegram  in  his  pocket?  To  persist  or  not  to  persist 
in  his  resolution  to  leave  Miss  Silvester  to  go  her  own  way? 
Those  were  the  questions  which  insisted  on  coming  round  to 
him  as  regularly  as  the  dishes  themselves  came  round  in  the 
orderly  progression  of  the  dinner. 

Blanche — who  had  not  felt  equal  to  taking  her  place  at  the 
table — appeared  in  the  drawing-room  afterward. 

Sir  Patrick  came  in  to  tea  with  the  gentlemen,  still  uncer- 
tain as  to  the  right  course  to  take  in  the  matter  of  the  tele- 
gram. One  look  at  Blanche's  sad  face  and  Blanche's  altered 
manner  decided  him.  What  would  be  the  result  if  he  roused 
new  hopes  by  resuming  the  effort  to  trace  Miss  Silvester,  and 
if  he  lost  the  trace  a  second  time  ?  He  had  only  to  look  at  his 
niece  and  to  see.  Could  any  consideration  justify  him  in  turn- 
ing her  mind  back  on  the  memory  of  the  friend  who  had  left 
her  at  the  moment  when  it  was  just  beginning  to  look  forward 
for  relief  to  the  prospect  of  her  marriage  ?  Nothing  could  jus- 
tify him  ;  and  nothing  should  induce  him  to  do  it. 

Reasoning — soundly  enough,  from  his  own  point  of  view — 
on  that  basis,  Sir  Patrick  determined  on  sending  no  further 
instructions  to  his  friend  at  Edinburgh.  That  night  he  warn- 
ed Duncan  to  preserve  the  strictest  silence  as  to  the  arrival  of 
the  telegram.  He  burned  it,  in  case  of  accidents,  with  his  own 
hand,  in  his  own  room. 

Rising  the  next  day  and  looking  out  of  his  window.  Sir  Pat- 
rick saw  the  two  young  people  taking  their  morning  walk  at 
a  moment  when  they  happened  to  cross  the  open  grassy  space 
which  separated  the  two  shrubberies  at  Windygates.  Ar- 
nold's arm  was  round  Blanche's  waist,  and  they  were  talking 
confidentially  with  their  heads  close  together.  "  She  is  coming 
round  already  !"  thought  the  old  gentleman,  as  the  two  disap- 
peared again  in  the  second  shrubbery  from  view.  "  Thank 
Heaven  !  things  are  running  smoothly  at  last !" 

Among  the  ornaments  of  Sir  Patrick's  bedroom  there  was  a 
view  (taken  from  above)  of  one  of  the  Highland  water-falls. 
Jf  he  had  looked  at  the  picture  when  he  turned  away  from  his 


MAN    AND    WIFE.  279 

window,  he  might  have  remarked  that  a  river  which  is  runuing 
with  its  utmost  smoothness  at  one  moment  may  be  a  river 
which  plunges  into  its  most  violent  agitation  at  another ;  and 
he  might  have  remembered,  with  certain  misgivings,  that  the 
progress  of  a  stream  of  water  has  been  long  siace  likened,  with 
the  universal  consent  of  humanity,  to  the  progress  of  the  stream 
of  life. 


FIFTH  SCENE.— GLASGOW. 
CHAPTER  THE  TWENTY-NINTR 

ANNE    AMONG    THE    LAWYERS. 

On  the  day  when  Sir  Patrick  received  the  second  of  the  two 
telegrams  sent  to  him  from  Edinburgh,  four  respectable  inhab- 
itants of  the  City  of  Glasgow  were  startled  by  the  appearance 
of  an  object  of  interest  on  the  monotonous  horizon  of  their 
daily  lives. 

The  persons  receiving  this  wholesome  shock  were — Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Karnegie  of  the  Sheep's  Head  Hotel ;  and  Mr.  Camp  and 
Mr.  Crum,  attached  as  "  Writers  "  to  the  honorable  profession 
of  the  Law, 

It  was  still  early  in  the  day  when  a  lady  arrived  in  a  cab 
from  the  railway,  at  the  Sheep's  Head  Hotel.  Her  luggage 
consisted  of  a  black  box,  and  of  a  well-worn  leather  bag  which 
she  carried  in  her  hand.  The  name  on  the  box  (recently  writ- 
ten on  a  new  luggage  label,  as  the  color  of  the  ink  and  paper 
showed)  was  a  very  good  name  in  its  way,  common  to  a  very 
great  number  of  ladies,  both  in  Scotland  and  England.  It 
was  "Mrs.  Graham." 

Encountering  the  landlord  at  the  entrance  to  the  hotel, 
"  Mrs.  Graham  "  asked  to  be  accommodated  with  a  bedroom, 
and  was  transferred  in  due  course  to  the  chamber-maid  on 
duty  at  the  time.  Returning  to  the  little  room  behind  the 
bar,  in  which  the  accounts  were  kept,  Mr.  Karnegie  surprised 
his  wife  by  moving  more  briskly,  and  looking  much  brighter 
than  usual.  Being  questioned,  Mr.  Karnegie  (who  had  cast 
the  eye  of  a  landlord  on  the  black  box  in  the  passage)  an- 
nounced that  one  "  Mrs.  Graham "  had  just  arrived,  and  was 
then  and  there  to  be  booked  as  inhabiting  Room  Number  Sev- 
enteen. Being  informed  (with  considerable  asperity  of  tone 
and  manner)  that  this  answer  failed  to  account  for  the  inter- 
est which  appeared  to  have  been  inspired  in  him  by  a  total 
stranger,  Mr.  Karnegie  came  to  the  point,  and  confessed  that 
"Mrs.  Graham"  was  one  of  the  sweetest-looking  women  he 


280  MAN    AND    WIFE. 

bad  seen  for  many  a  long  day,  and  that  he  feared  she  was  very 
seriously  out  of  health. 

Upon  that  reply  the  eyes  of  Mrs.  Karnegie  developed  in 
size,  and  the  color  of  Mrs.  Karnegie  deepened  in  tint.  She  got 
up  from  her  chair,  and  said  that  it  might  be  just  as  well  if  she 
personally  superintended  the  installation  of  "Mrs.  Graham  "in 
her  room,  and  personally  satisfied  herself  that  "Mrs.  Graham" 
was  a  fit  inmate  to  be  received  at  the  Sheep's  Head  Hotel. 
Mr.  Karnegie  thereupon  did  what  he  always  did — he  agreed 
with  his  wife. 

Mrs.  Karnegie  was  absent  for  some  little  time.  On  her  re- 
turn her  eyes  had  a  certain  tigerish  cast  in  them  when  they 
rested  on  Mr.  Karnegie.  She  ordered  tea  and  some  light  re- 
freshment to  be  taken  to  Number  Seventeen.  This  done  — 
without  any  visible  provocation  to  account  for  the  remark — 
she  turned  upon  her  husband,  and  said,  "  Mr.  Karnegie,  you 
are  a  fool."  Mr.  Kai'negie  asked  "  Why,  my  dear?"  Mrs. 
Karnegie  snapped  her  fingers,  and  said,  '■''That  for  her  good 
looks  !  You  don't  know  a  good-looking  woman  when  you  see 
her."     Mr.  Karnegie  agreed  with  his  wife. 

Nothing  more  was  said  until  the  waiter  appeared  at  the  bar 
with  his  tray.  Mrs.  Karnegie,  having  first  waived  the  tray 
ofij  without  instituting  her  customary  investigation,  sat  down 
suddenly  with  a  thump,  and  said  to  her  husband  (who  had  not 
uttered  a  word  in  the  interval),  "  Don't  talk  to  Me  about  her 
being  out  of  health !  That  for  her  health  !  It's  trouble  on 
her  mind." 

Mr.  Karnegie  said,  "  Is  it  now  ?"  Mrs.  Karnegie  replied, 
"  When  I  have  said.  It  is,  I  consider  myself  insulted  if  another 
person  says.  Is  it  ?"     Mr.  Karnegie  agreed  with  his  wife. 

There  was  another  interval.  Mrs.  Karnegie  added  up  a 
bill,  with  a  face  of  disgust.  Mr.  Karnegie  looked  at  her  with 
a  face  of  wonder.  Mrs.  Karnegie  suddenly  asked  him  why  he 
wasted  his  looks  on  Ae?',  when  he  would  have  "  Mrs.  Graham  " 
to  look  at  before  long.  Mr.  Karnegie,  upon  that,  attempted  to 
compromise  the  matter,  by  looking,  in  tlie  interim,  at  his  own 
boots.  Mrs.  Karnegie  wished  to  know  whether,  after  twen- 
ty years  of  married  life,  she  was  considered  to  be  not  worth 
answering  by  her  own  husband.  Treated  with  bare  civility 
(she  expected  no  more),  she  might  have  gone  on  to  explain 
that  "  Mrs.  Graham "  was  going  out.  She  might  also  have 
been  prevailed  on  to  mention  that  "Mrs.  Graham"  had  asked 
her  a  very  remarkable  question  of  a  business  nature,  at  the  in- 
terview between  them  up  stairs.  As  it  was,  Mrs.  Karnegie's 
lips  were  sealed,  and  let  Mr.  Karnegie  deny,  if  ho  dared,  that 
he  richly  deserved  it.     Mr.  Karnegie  agreed  with  his  wife. 

In  half  an  hour  more  "  Mrs.  Graham  "  came  down  stairs,  and 


MAN    AND    WIFE.  281 

a  cab  was  sent  for.  Mr.  Karuegie,  in  fear  of  the  consequences 
if  he  did  otherwise,  kept  in  a  corner.  Mrs.  Karnegie  followed 
him  into  the  corner,  and  asked  him  how  he  dared  act  in  that 
way?  Did  he  presume  to  think,  after  twenty  years  of  mar- 
ried life,  that  his  wife  was  jealous  ?  "  Go,  you  brute,  and 
hand  Mrs.  Graham  into  the  cab  !" 

Mr.  Karnegie  obeyed.  He  asked,  at  the  cab  window,  to 
what  part  of  Glasgow  he  should  tell  the  driver  to  go.  The 
reply  informed  him  that  the  driver  was  to  take  "  Mrs.  Gra- 
ham" to  the  office  of  Mr.  Camp,  the  lawyer.  Assuming  "Mrs. 
Graham"  to  be  a  stranger  in  Glasgow,  and  remembering  tliat 
Mr.  Camp  was  Mr.  Karnegie's  lawyer,  the  inference  appeared 
to  be,  that  "Mrs.  Graham's"  remarkable  question,  addressed  to 
the  landlady,  had  related  to  legal  business,  and  to  the  discov- 
ery of  a  trustworthy  person  capable  of  transacting  it  for  her. 

Returning  to  the  bar,  Mr.  Karnegie  found  his  eldest  daugh- 
ter in  charge  of  the  books,  the  bills,  and  the  waiters.  Mrs. 
Karnegie  had  retired  to  her  own  room,  justly  indignant  with 
her  husband  for  his  infamous  conduct  in  handing  "Mrs.  Gra- 
ham "  into  the  cab  before  her  own  eyes.  "  It's  the  old  story, 
Pa,"  remarked  Miss  Karnegie,  with  the  most  perfect  compos- 
ure. "  Ma  told  you  to  do  it,  of  course ;  and  then  Ma  says 
you've  insulted  her  before  all  the  servants.  I  wonder  how 
you  bear  it  ?"  Mr.  Karnegie  looked  at  his  boots,  and  answer- 
ed, "I  wonder,  too,  my  dear."  Miss  Karnegie  said,  "You're 
not  going  to  Ma,  are  you?"  Mr.  Karnegie  looked  up  from  his 
boots,  and  answered,  "  I  must,  my  dear," 

Mr.  Camp  sat  in  his  private  room,  absorbed  over  his  papers. 
Multitudinous  as  those  documents  were,  they  appeared  to  be 
not  sufficiently  numerous  to  satisfy  Mi*.  Camp.  He  rang  his 
bell,  and  ordered  more. 

The  clerk  appearing  with  a  new  pile  of  papers,  appeared 
also  with  a  message.  A  lady,  recommended  by  Mrs.  Karne- 
gie, of  the  Sheep's  Head,  Avished  to  consult  Mr.  Camp  profes- 
sionally. Mr.  Camp  looked  at  his  watch,  counting  out  pre- 
cious time  before  him,  in  a  little  stand  on  the  table,  and  said, 
"  Show  the  lady  in,  in  ten  minutes." 

In  ten  minutes  the  lady  appeared.  She  took  the  client's 
chair  and  lifted  her  veil.  The  same  effect  which  had  been 
produced  on  Mr.  Karnegie  was  once  more  produced  on  Mr. 
Camp.  For  the  first  time,  for  many  a  long  year  past,  he  felt 
personally  interested  in  a  total  stranger.  It  might  have  been 
something  in  her  eyes,  or  it  might  have  been  something  in  her 
manner.  Whatever  it  was  it  took  softly  hold  of  him,  and 
made  him,  to  his  own  exceeding  surprise,  unmistakably  anx- 
ious to  hear  what  she  had  to  say  I 


282  MAN   AND   WIFE. 

The  lady  announced— iu  a  low  sweet  voice,  touched  with  a 
quiet  sadness — that  her  business  related  to  a  question  of  mar- 
riage (as  marriage  is  understood  by  Scottisii  law),  and  that  her 
own  peace  of  mind,  and  the  happiness  of  a  person  very  dear  to 
her,  were  concerned  alike  in  the  opinion  which  Mr.  Camp  might 
give  when  he  had  been  placed  in  possession  of  the  facts. 

She  then  proceeded  to  state  the  facts,  without  mentioning 
names  :  relating  iu  every  particular  precisely  the  same  succes- 
sion of  events  which  Geoffrey  Delamayn  had  already  related 
to^'Sir  Patrick  Lundie — with  this  one  difference,  that  she  ac- 
knowledged herself  to  be  the  woman  who  was  personally  con- 
cerned in  knowing  whether,  by  Scottish  law,  she  was  now  held 
to  be  a  married  woman  or  not. 

Mr.  Camp's  opinion  given  upon  this,  after  certain  questions 
had  been  asked  and  answered,  differed  from  Sir  Patrick's  opin- 
ion, as  given  at  Windygates.  He  too  quoted  the  language 
used  by  the  eminent  judge — Lord  Deas — but  he  drew  an  infer- 
ence of  his  own  from  it.  "  In  Scotland,  consent  makes  mar- 
riage," he  said ;  "  and  consent  may  be  proved  by  inference.  I 
see  a  plain  inference  of  matrimonial  consent  in  the  circum- 
stances which  you  have  related  to  me ;  and  I  say  you  are  a 
married  woman." 

The  effect  produced  on  the  lady,  when  sentence  was  pro- 
nounced on  her  in  those  terms,  was  so  distressing  that  Mi*. 
Camp  sent  a  message  up  stairs  to  his  wife  ;  and  Mrs,  Camp 
appeared  in  her  husband's  private  room,  in  business  hours,  for 
the  first  time  in  her  life.  When  Mrs.  Camp's  services  had  in 
some  degree  restored  the  lady  to  herself,  Mr.  Camp  followed 
with  a  word  of  professional  comfort.  He,  like  Sir  Patrick,  ac- 
knowledged the  scandalous  divergence  of  opinions  produced  by 
the  confusion  and  uncertainty  of  the  marriage-law  of  Scotland. 
He,  like  Sir  Patrick,  declared  it  to  be  quite  possible  that  an- 
other lawyer  might  arrive  at  another  conclusion.  "  Go,"  he 
said,  giving  her  his  card,  with  a  line  of  writing  on  it,  "  to  my 
colleague,  Mr.  Crum,  and  say  I  sent  you." 

The  lady  gratefully  thanked  Mr.  Camp  and  his  wife,  and 
went  next  to  the  office  of  Mr.  Crum. 

Mr.  Crum  was  the  older  lawyer  of  the  two,  and  the  harder 
lawyer  of  the  tW'O  ;  but  he,  too,  felt  the  influence  which  the 
charm  that  there  was  in  this  woman  exercised,  more  or  less, 
over  every  man  who  came  in  contact  with  her.  He  listened 
with  a  patience  which  was  rare  with  him  ;  he  put  his  questions 
with  a  gentleness  which  was  rarer  still ;  and  when  he  was  in 
possession  of  the  circumstances — behold,  his  opinion  flatly  con- 
tradicted the  opinion  of  Mr.  Camp  ! 

"No  marriage,  ma'am,"  he  said,  positively.  "Evidence  in 
favor  of  perhaps  establishing  a  marriage,  if  you  propose  to 


MAN    AXD    WIFE.  283 

claim  the  man.  But  that,  as  I  understand  it,  is  exactly  what 
you  don't  wish  to  do." 

The  relief  to  the  lady,  on  hearing  this,  almost  overpowered 
her.  For  some  minutes  she  was  unable  to  speak.  Mr.  Crum 
did,  wliat  lie  had  never  done  yet  in  all  his  experience  as  a  law- 
yer. He  patted  a  client  on  the  shoulder;  and,  more  extraor- 
dinary still,  he  gave  a  client  permission  to  waste  his  time. 
"  Wait,  and  compose  yourself,"  said  Mr.  Crum — administering 
the  law  of  humanity.  The  ladj^  composed  herself.  "  I  must 
ask  you  some  questions,  ma'am,"  said  Mr.  Crum — administering 
the  law  of  the  land.  The  lady  bowed,  and  waited  for  him  to 
begin. 

"I  know,  thus  far,  that  you  decline  to  claim  the  gentleman," 
said  Mr.  Crum.  "  I  want  to  know  now  whether  the  gentleman 
is  likely  to  claim  youP 

The  answer  to  this  was  given  in  the  most  positive  terms. 
The  gentleman  was  not  even  aware  of  the  position  in  which  he 
stood.  And,  more  )^et,  he  was  engaged  to  be  married  to  the 
dearest  friend  whom  the  lady  had  in  the  world. 

Mi*.  Crum  opened  his  eyes  —  considered  —  and  put  another 
question  as  delicately  as  he  could : 

"  Would  it  be  painful  to  you  to  tell  me  how  the  gentleman 
came  to  occupy  the  awkward  position  in  which  he  stands 
now  ?" 

The  lady  acknowledged  that  it  would  be  indescribably 
painful  to  her  to  answer  that  question. 

Mr.  Crum  offered  a  suggestion  under  the  form  of  an  inquiry; 

"  Would  it  be  painful  to  you  to  reveal  the  circumstances — 
in  the  interests  of  the  gentleman's  future  prospects — to  some 
discreet  person  (a  legal  person  would  be  best)  who  is  not, 
what  I  am,  a  stranger  to  you  both  ?" 

The  lady  declared  herself  willing  to  make  any  sacrifice  on 
those  conditions — no  matter  how  painful  it  might  be — for  her 
friend's  sake. 

Mr.  Crum  considered  a  little  longer,  and  then  delivered  his 
word  of  advice  : 

"  At  the  present  stage  of  the  affair,"  he  said,  "  I  need  only 
tell  you  what  is  the  first  step  that  you  ought  to  take  under 
the  circumstances.  Inform  the  gentleman  at  once — eitlier  by 
word  of  mouth  or  by  writing  —  of  the  position  in  wliich  he 
stands  ;  and  authorize  him  to  place  the  case  in  the  hands  of 
a  person  known  to  you  both,  who  is  competent  to  decide  on 
what  you  are  to  do  next.  Do  I  understand  that  you  know  of 
such  a  person  so  qualified  ?" 

The  lady  answered  that  she  knew  of  such  a  j^erson. 

Mr.  Crum  asked  if  a  day  had  been  fixed  for  the  gentleman's 
marriage. 


284  MAN    AND    WIFE. 

The  lady  answered  that  she  had  made  this  inquiry  herself 
on  the  last  occasion  when  she  had  seen  the  gentleman's  be- 
trothed wife.  The  marriage  was  to  take  place,  on  a  day  to  be 
hereafter  chosen,  at  the  end  of  the  autumn, 

"  That,"  said  Mr.  Crura,  "  is  a  fortunate  circumstance.  You 
have  time  before  you.  Time  is,  here,  of  very  great  importance. 
Be  careful  not  to  waste  it." 

The  lady  said  she  would  return  to  her  hotel  and  write  by 
that  night's  post,  to  warn  the  gentleman  of  the  position  in 
which  he  stood,  and  to  authorize  him  to  refer  the  matter  to  a 
competent  and  trustworthy  friend  known  to  them  both. 

On  rising  to  leave  the  room  she  was  seized  with  giddiness, 
and  with  some  sudden  pang  of  pain,  which  turned  her  deadly 
pale  and  forced  her  to  drop  back  into  her  chair.  Mr.  Crum 
had  no  wife ;  but  he  possessed  a  housekeeper — and  he  offered 
to  send  for  her.  The  lady  made  a  sign  in  the  negative.  She 
drank  a  little  water,  and  conquered  the  pain.  "  I  am  sorry  to 
have  alarmed  you,"  she  said.  "It's  nothing  —  I  am  better 
now."  Mr,  Crum  gave  her  his  arm,  and  put  her  into  the  cab. 
She  looked  so  pale  and  faint  that  he  proposed  sending  his 
housekeeper  with  her.  No :  it  was  only  five  minutes'  drive  to 
the  hotel.  The  lady  thanked  him,  and  went  her  way  back 
by  herself. 

"  The  letter  !"  she  said,  when  she  was  alone.  "  If  I  can  only 
live  long  enough  to  write  the  letter !" 


CHAPTER  THE  THIRTIETH. 

ANNE    IN   THE    NEWSPAPERS. 

Mrs.  Karnegie  was  a  woman  of  feeble  intelligence  and  vio- 
lent temper ;  prompt  to  take  offense,  and  not,  for  the  most 
part,  easy  to  appease.  But  Mrs.  Karnegie  being  —  as  we  all 
are  in  our  various  degrees  —  a  compound  of  many  opposite 
qualities,  possessed  a  character  with  more  than  one  side  to  it, 
and  had  her  human  merits  as  well  as  her  human  faults.  Seeds 
of  sound  good  feeling  were  scattered  away  in  the  remoter 
corners  of  her  nature,  and  only  waited  for  the  fertilizing  occa- 
sion that  was  to  help  them  to  spring  up.  The  occasion  exert- 
ed that  benign  influence  when  the  cab  brought  Mr.  Crum's 
client  back  to  the  hotel.  The  face  of  the  weary,  heart-sick 
woman,  as  she  slowly  crossed  the  hall,  roused  all  that  was 
heartiest  and  best  in  Mrs,  Karnegie's  nature,  and  said  to  her, 
as  if  in  words,  "  Jealous  of  this  broken  creatui-e  ?  Oh,  wife 
and  mother,  is  there  no  appeal  to  your  common  womanhood 
here  r 


II 


MAN    AND    WIFE.  285 

"  I  am  afraid  you  have  overtired  yourself,  ma'am.  Let  me 
send  you  something  up  stairs  ?" 

"  Send  me  pen,  ink,  and  paper,"  was  the  answer.  "  I  must 
write  a  letter.     I  must  do  it  at  once," 

It  was  useless  to  remonstrate  with  her.  She  was  ready  to 
accept  any  thing  proposed,  provided  the  Avriting  materials 
were  supplied  first.  Mrs.  Karnegie  sent  them  up,  and  then 
compounded  a  certain  mixture  of  eggs  and  hot  wine,  for  which 
The  Sheep's  Head  was  famous,  with  her  own  hands.  In  five 
minutes  or  so  it  was  ready ;  and  Miss  Karnegie  was  dispatch- 
ed by  her  mother  (who  had  other  business  on  hand  at  the  time) 
to  take  it  up  stairs. 

After  the  lapse  of  a  few  moments  a  cry  of  alarm  was  heard 
from  the  upper  landing.  Mrs.  Karnegie  recognized  her  daugh- 
ter's voice,  and  hastened  to  the  bedroom  floor. 

"  Oh,  mamma  I     Look  at  her  !  look  at  her  !" 

The  letter  was  on  the  table  with  the  first  lines  written.  The 
woman  was  on  the  sofa  with  her  handkerchief  twisted  between 
her  set  teeth,  and  her  tortured  face  terrible  to  look  at.  Mrs. 
Karnegie  raised  her  a  little,  examined  her  closely — then  sud- 
denly changed  color,  and  sent  her  daughter  out  of  the  room 
with  directions  to  dispatch  a  messenger  instantly  for  medical 
help. 

Left  alone  with  the  suflferer,  Mrs.  Karnegie  carried  her  to 
her  bed.  As  she  was  laid  down  her  left  hand  fell  helpless  over 
the  side  of  the  bed.  Mrs.  Karnegie  suddenly  checked  the 
word  of  sympathy  as  it  rose  to  her  lips — suddenly  lifted  the 
hand,  and  looked,  with  a  momentary  sternness  of  scrutiny,  at 
the  third  finger.  There  was  a  ring  on  it.  Mrs.  Karnegie's 
face  softened  on  the  instant :  the  word  of  pity  that  had  been 
suspended  the  moment  before  passed  her  lips  freely  now. 
"  Poor  soul !"  said  the  respectable  landlady,  taking  appearances 
for  granted.  "  Where's  your  husband,  dear  ?  Try  and  tell 
me." 

The  doctor  made  his  appearance,  and  went  up  to  the  patient. 

Time  passed,  and  Mi\  Karnegie  and  his  daughter,  carrying 
on  the  business  of  the  hotel,  received  a  message  from  up  stairs 
which  was  ominous  of  something  out  of  the  common.  The 
message  gave  the  name  and  address  of  an  experienced  nurse — 
with  the  doctor's  compliments,  and  would  Mr.  Karnegie  have 
the  kindness  to  send  for  her  immediately. 

The  nurse  was  found  and  sent  up  stairs. 

Time  went  on,  and  the  business  of  the  hotel  went  on,  and  it 
was  getting  to  be  late  in  the  evening,  when  Mrs.  Karnegie  ap- 
peared at  last  in  the  parlor  behind  the  bar.  The  landhidy's 
face  was  grave ;  the  landlady's  manner  was  subdued.  "  Very, 
yery  ill,"  was  the  only  reply  she  made  to  her  daughter's  in^ 


286  MAN    AND    WIFE. 

quiries.  When  she  and  her  husband  were  together,  a  little 
later,  she  told  the  news  from  up  stairs  in  greater  detail.  *'A 
child  born  dead,"  said  Mrs.  Karnegie,  in  gentler  tones  than 
were  customary  with  her.  "And  the  mother  dying,  poor 
thing,  so  far  as  /can  see." 

A  little  later  the  doctor  came  down.  Dead?  No, — Likely 
to  live?  Impossible  to  say.  The  doctor  returned  twice  in 
the  course  of  the  night.  Both  times  he  had  but  one  answer. 
"  Wait  till  to-morrow." 

The  next  day  came.  She  rallied  a  little.  Toward  the  after- 
noon she  began  to  speak.  Slie  expressed  no  surprise  at  seeing 
strangers  by  her  bedside :  her  mind  wandered.  She  passed 
again  into  insensibility.  Then  back  to  delirium  once  more. 
The  doctor  said,  "  This  may  last  for  weeks.  Or  it  may  end 
suddenly  in  death.  It's  time  you  did  something  toward  find- 
ing her  friends." 

"(Her  friends  !     She  had  left  the  one  friend  she  had  forever !) 

Mr.  Camp  was  summoned  to  give  his  advice.  The  first 
thing  he  asked  for  was  the  unfinished  letter. 

It  was  blotted,  it  was  illegible  in  more  places  than  one. 
With  pains  and  care  they  made  out  the  address  at  the  begin- 
ning, and  here  and  there  some  fragments  of  the  lines  that  fol- 
lowed. It  began  :  "  Dear  Mr.  Brinkworth."  Then  the  writing 
got,  little  by  little,  worse  and  worse.  To  the  eyes  of  the  stran- 
gers who  looked  at  it,  it  ran  thus :  "  I  should  ill  requite  *  *  * 
Blanche's  interests  *  *  *  For  God's  sake  !  *  *  *  don't  think 
of  me  *  *  * — "  There  was  a  little  more,  but  not  so  much  as 
one  word,  in  those  last  lines,  was  legible. 

The  names  mentioned  in  the  letter  were  reported  by  the 
doctor  and  the  nurse  to  be  also  the  names  on  her  lips  when  she 
spoke  in  her  wanderings.  "  Mr.  Brinkworth  "  and  "  Blanche  " 
— her  mind  ran  incessantly  on  those  two  persons.  The  one  in- 
telligible thing  that  she  mentioned  in  connection  with  them 
was  the  letter.  She  was  perpetually  trying,  trying,  trying  to 
take  that  unfinished  letter  to  the  post;  and  she  could  never 
get  there.  Sometimes  the  post  was  across  the  sea.  Some- 
times it  was  at  the  top  of  an  inaccessible  mountain.  Some- 
times it  was  built  in  by  prodigious  walls  all  round  it.  Some- 
times a  man  stopped  her  cruelly  at  the  moment  when  she  was 
close  at  the  post,  and  forced  her  back  thousands  of  miles  away 
from  it.  She  once  or  twice  mentioned  this  visionary  man  by 
his  name.     They  made  it  out  to  be  "  Geoffrey." 

Finding  no  clue  to  her  identity  either  in  the  letter  that  she 
had  tried  to  write  or  in  the  wild  words  that  escaped  her  from 
time  to  time,  it  was  decided  to  search  her  luggage,  and  to  look 
at  the  clothes  which  she  had  worn  when  she  arrived  at  the 
hotel. 


MAN    AND    WIFE.  2  8 '7 

Her  black  box  sufficiently  proclaimed  itself  as  recently  pur- 
chased. On  opening  it  the  address  of  a  Glasgow  trunk-maker 
was  discovered  inside.  The  linen  was  also  new,  and  unmark- 
ed. The  receipted  shop-bill  was  found  with  it.  The  trades- 
men, sent  for  in  each  case  and  questioned,  referred  to  their 
books.  It  was  proved  that  the  box  and  the  linen  had  both 
been  purchased  on  the  day  when  she  appeared  at  the  hotel. 

Her  black  bag  was  opened  next.  A  sum  of  between  eighty 
and  ninety  pounds  in  Bank  of  England  notes ;  a  few  simple 
articles  belonging  to  the  toilet ;  materials  for  needle-work ; 
and  a  photographic  portrait  of  a  young  lady,  inscribed,  "  To 
Anne,  from  Blanche,"  were  found  in  the  bag — but  no  letters, 
and  nothing  whatever  that  could  afford  the  slightest  clue  by 
which  the  owner  could  be  traced.  The  pocket  in  her  dress 
was  searched  next.  It  contained  a  purse,  an  empty  card-case, 
and  a  new  handkerchief  unmarked. 

Mr.  Camp  shook  his  head. 

"A  woman's  luggage  without  any  letters  in  it,"  he  said, 
"  suggests  to  my  mind  a  woman  who  has  a  motive  of  her  own 
for  keeping  her  movements  a  secret.  I  suspect  she  has  de- 
stroyed her  letters,  and  emptied  her  card-case,  with  that  view." 
Mrs.  Karnegie's  report,  after  examining  the  linen  which  the  so- 
called  "  Mrs.  Graham  "  had  worn  when  she  arrived  at  the  inn, 
proved  the  soundness  of  the  lawyer's  opinion.  In  every  case 
the  marks  had  been  cut  out.  Mrs.  Karnegie  began  to  doubt 
whether  the  ring  which  she  had  seen  on  the  third  finger  of  the 
lady's  left  hand  had  been  placed  there  with  the  sanction  of 
the  law. 

There  was  but  one  chance  left  of  discovering — or  rather  of 
attempting  to  discover — her  friends.  Mr.  Camp  drew  out  an 
advertisement  to  be  inserted  in  the  Glasgow  newspapers.  If 
those  newspapers  happened  to  be  seen  by  any  member  of  her 
family,  she  would,  in  all  probability,  be  claimed.  In  the  con- 
trary event  there  would  be  nothing  for  it  but  to  wait  for  her 
recovery  or  her  death — with  the  money  belonging  to  her  sealed 
up,  and  deposited  in  the  landlord's  strong-box. 

The  advertisement  appeared.  They  waited  for  three  days 
afterward,  and  nothing  came  of  it.  No  change  of  importance 
occurred,  during  the  same  period,  in  the  condition  of  the  suf- 
fering woman.  Mr.  Camp  looked  in,  toward  evening,  and  said, 
"  We  have  done  our  best.    There  is  no  help  for  it  but  to  wait." 

Far  away  in  Perthshire  that  third  evening  was  marked  as  a 
joyful  occasion  at  Windygates  House.  Blanche  had  consented 
at  last  to  listen  to  Arnold's  entreaties,  and  had  sanctioned  the 
writing  of  a  letter  to  London  to  order  her  wedding-dress. 


288  MAN   AND   WlFB. 


SIXTH  SCENE.— SWANHA  VEN  LODGE. 
CHAPTER   THE    THIRTY-FIRST. 

SEEDS  OF  THE  FUTURE  (fIEST  SOWINg). 

"  Not  so  large  as  Windy  gates.  But — shall  we  say  snug- 
Jones  ?" 

"  And  comfortable,  Smith.     I  quite  agree  with  you." 

Such  was  the  judgment  pronounced  by  the  two  choral  gen- 
tlemen on  Julius  Delamayn's  house  in  Scotland.  It  M'as,  as 
usual  with  Smith  and  Jones,  a  sound  judgment — as  far  as  it 
went.  Swauhaven  Lodge  was  not  half  the  size  of  Windy- 
gates  ;  but  it  had  been  inhabited  for  two  centuries  when  the 
foundations  of  Windygates  were  first  laid — and  it  possessed 
the  advantages,  without  inheriting  the  drawbacks,  of  its  age. 
There  is  in  an  old  house  a  friendly  adaptation  to  the  human 
character,  as  there  is  in  an  old  hat  a  friendly  adaptation  to  the 
human  head.  The  visitor  who  left  Swanhaven  quitted  it  with 
something  like  a  sense  of  leaving  home.  Among  the  few  houses 
not  our  own  which  take  a  strong  hold  on  our  sympathies  this 
was  one.  The  ornamental  grounds  were  far  inferior  in  size  and 
splendor  to  the  grounds  at  Windygates.  But  the  park  was 
beautiful — less  carefully  laid  out,  but  also  less  monotonous  than 
an  English  park.  The  lake  on  the  northern  boundary  of  the 
estate,  famous  for  its  breed  of  swans,  was  one  of  the  curiosities 
of  the  neighborhood  ;  and  the  house  had  a  history,  associating 
it  with  more  than  one  celebrated  Scottish  name,  which  had 
been  written  and  illustrated  by  Julius  Delamayn.  Visitors 
to  Swanhaven  Lodge  were  invariably  presented  with  a  copy 
of  the  volume  (privately  printed).  One  in  twenty  read  it. 
The  rest  were  "  charmed,"  and  looked  at  the  pictures. 

The  day  was  the  last  day  of  August,  and  the  occasion  was 
the  garden-party  given  by  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Delamayn. 

Smith  and  Jones — following  with  the  other  guests  at  Windy- 
gates, in  Lady  Lundie's  train — exchanged  their  opinions  on  the 
merits  of  the  house,  standing  on  a  terrace  at  the  back,  near  a 
flight  of  steps  which  led  down  into  the  garden.  They  formed 
the  van-guard  of  the  visitors,  appearing  by  twos  and  threes 
from  the  reception-rooms,  and  all  bent  on  going  to  see  the 
swans  before  the  amusements  of  the  day  began.  Julius  Del- 
amayn came  out  with  the  first  detachment,  recruited  Smith 
and  Jones,  and  other  wandering  bachelors,  by-the-way,  and  set 


MAN    AND    WIFE.  289 

forth  for  the  lake.  An  interval  of  a  minute  or  two  passed — 
and  the  terrace  remained  empty.  Then  two  ladies — at  the  head 
of  a  second  detachment  of  visitors — appeared  under  the  old 
stone  porch  which  sheltered  the-  entrance  on  that  side  of  the 
house.  One  of  the  ladies  was  a  modest,  pleasant  little  person, 
very  simply  dressed.  The  other  was  of  the  tall  and  formidable 
type  of  "  fine  women,"  clad  in  dazzling  array.  The  first  was 
Mrs.  Julius  Delamayn.     The  second  was  Lady  Lundie. 

"  Exquisite  !"  cried  her  ladyship,  surveying  the  old  muU- 
ioned  windows  of  the  house,  with  their  framing  of  creepers, 
and  the  grand  stone  buttresses  projecting  at  intervals  from  the 
wall,  each  with  its  bright  little  circle  of  flowers  blooming  round 
the  base.  "  I  am  really  grieved  that  Sir  Patrick  should  have 
missed  this." 

"  I  think  you  said,  Lady  Lundie,  that  Sir  Patrick  had  been 
called  to  Edinburgh  by  family  business  ?" 

"Business,  Mrs.  Delamayn,  which  is  any  thing  but  agreeable 
to  me,  as  one  member  of  the  family.  It  has  altered  all  my  ar- 
rangements for  the  autumn.  My  stepdaughter  is  to  be  mar- 
ried next  week." 

"  Is  it  so  near  as  that  ?     May  I  ask  who  the  gentleman  is  ?" 

"  Mr.  Arnold  Brinkworth." 

"  Surely  I  have  some  association  with  that  name  ?" 

"  You  have  probably  heard  of  him,  Mrs.  Delamayn,  as  the 
heir  to  Miss  Brinkworth's  Scotch  property  ?" 

"  Exactly  !   Have  you  brought  Mr.  Brinkworth  here  to-day?" 

"  I  bring  his  apologies,  as  well  as  Sir  Patrick's.  They  went 
to  Edinburgh  together  the  day  before  yesterday.  The  law- 
yers engage  to  have  the  settlements  ready  in  three  or  four 
days  more,  if  a  personal  consultation  can  be  managed.  Some 
formal  question,  I  believe,  connected  with  title-deeds.  Sir  Pat- 
rick thought  the  safest  way  and  the  speediest  way  would  be 
to  take  Mr.  Brinkworth  with  him  to  Edinburgh — to  get  the 
business  over  to-day — and  to  wait  until  we  join  them,  on  our 
way  south,  to-morrow." 

"  You  leave  Windygates,  in  this  lovely  weather  ?" 

"Most  unwillingly!  The  truth  is,  Mrs.  Delamayn,  I  am  at 
my  stepdaughter's  mercy.  Her  uncle  has  the  authority,  as 
her  guardian — and  the  use  he  makes  of  it  is  to  give  her  her 
own  way  in  every  thing.  It  was  only  on  Friday  last  that  she 
consented  to  let  the  day  be  fixed — and  even  then  she  made  it 
a  positive  condition  that  the  marriage  was  not  to  take  place 
in  Scotland.  Pure  willfulness  !  But  what  can  I  do?  Sir  Pat- 
rick submits;  and  Mr.  Brinkworth  submits.  If  I  am  to  be 
present  at  the  marriage  I  must  follow  their  example.  I  feel 
it  my  duty  to  be  present — and,  as  a  matter  of  course,  I  sacri- 
fice myself  We  start  for  London  to-morrow." 
19 


290  MAN    AND    WIFE, 

"Is  Miss  Lundie  to  be  married  in  Loudon  at  this  time  of 
year '?" 

"  No.  We  only  pass  through,  on  our  way  to  Sir  Pati'ick'e 
place  in  Kent — the  place  that  came  to  him  with  the  title ;  the 
place  associated  with  the  last  days  of  my  beloved  husband. 
Another  trial  for  me!  The  marriage  is  to  be  solemnized  on 
the  scene  of  my  bereavement.  My  old  wound  is  to  be  re- 
opened on  Monday  next — simply  because  my  stepdaughter  hag 
taken  a  dislike  to  Windygates." 

"  This  day  week,  then,  is  the  day  of  the  marriage  ?" 

"  Yes ;  this  day  week.  There  have  been  reasons  for  hurry- 
ing it  which  I  need  not  trouble  you  with.  No  words  can  say 
how  I  wish  it  was  over. — But,  my  dear  Mrs.  Delamayn,  how 
thoughtless  of  me  to  assail  you  with  my  family  worries  !  You 
are  so  sympathetic.  That  is  my  only  excuse.  Don't  let  me 
keep  you  from  your  guests,  I  could  linger  in  this  sweet  place 
forever  !     Where  is  Mrs.  Glenarm  ?" 

"  I  really  don't  know.  I  missed  her  when  we  came  out  on 
the  terrace.  She  will  very  likely  join  us  at  the  lake.  Do  you 
cai'e  about  seeing  the  lake,  Lady  Lundie  ?" 

"  I  adore  the  beauties  of  Nature,  Mrs.  Delamayn — especially 
lakes !" 

"  We  have  something  to  show  you  besides  ;  we  have  a  breed 
of  swans  on  the  lake,  peculiar  to  the  place.  My  husband  has 
gone  on  with  some  of  our  friends ;  and  I  believe  we  are  ex- 
pected to  follow,  as  soon  as  the  rest  of  the  party — in  charge  of 
my  sister — have  seen  the  house." 

"  And  what  a  house,  Mrs.  Delamayn  !  Historical  associations 
in  every  corner  of  it !  It  is  such  a  relief  to  my  mind  to  take 
refuge  in  the  past.  When  I  am  far  away  from  this  sweet 
place  I  shall  people  Swanhaven  with  its  departed  inmates,  and 
share  the  joys  and  sorrows  of  centuries  since." 

As  Lady  Lundie  announced,  in  these  terms,  her  intention 
of  adding  to  the  population  of  the  past,  the  last  of  the  guests 
who  had  been  roaming  over  the  old  house  appeared  under  the 
porch.  Among  the  members  forming  this  final  addition  to 
the  garden-party  were  Blanche,  and  a  friend  of  her  own  age 
whom  she  had  met  at  Swanhaven.  The  two  girls  lagged  be- 
hind the  rest,  talking  confidentially,  arm  in  arm — the  subject 
(it  is  surely  needless  to  add  ?)  being  the  coming  marriage. 

"  But,  dearest  Blanche,  why  are  you  not  to  be  married  at 
Windygates  ?" 

"  I  detest  Windygates,  Janet.  I  have  the  most  miserable 
associations  with  the  place.  Don't  ask  me  what  they  are  ! 
The  effort  of  my  life  is  not  to  think  of  them  now.  I  long  to 
see  the  last  of  Windygates.  As  for  being  married  there,  I 
have  made  it  a  condition  that  I  am  not  to  be  married  in  Scot- 
land at  all." 


MAN   AND    WIFE.  291 

"  What  has  poor  Scotland  done  to  forfeit  your  good  opinion, 
my  dear  ?" 

"  Poor  Scotland,  Janet,  is  a  place  where  people  don't  know 
whether  they  are  married  or  not.  I  have  heard  all  about  it 
from  my  uncle.  And  I  know  somebody  who  has  been  a  vic- 
tim— an  innocent  victim — to  a  Scotch  marriage." 

"Absurd,  Blanche  !  You  are  thinking  of  runaway  matches 
and  making  Scotland  responsible  for  the  difficulties  of  people 
who  daren't  own  the  truth  !" 

"  I  am  not  at  all  absurd.  I  am  thinking  of  the  dearest 
friend  I  have.     If  you  only  knew — " 

"  My  dear !  I  am  Scotch,  remember  !  You  can  be  married 
just  as  well — I  really  must  insist  on  that — in  Scotland  as  iu 
England." 

"  I  hate  Scotland  !" 

"  Blanche  !" 

"  I  never  was  so  unhappy  in  my  life  as  I  have  been  in  Scot- 
land. I  never  want  to  see  it  again.  I  am  determined  to  be 
married  in  England — from  the  dear  old  house  where  I  used  to 
live  when  I  was  a  little  girl.  My  uncle  is  quite  willing.  He 
understands  me  and  feels  for  me." 

"  Is  that  as  much  as  to  say  that  i"  don't  understand  you  and 
feel  for  you '?  Perhaps  I  had  better  relieve  you  of  my  com- 
pany, Blanche  ?" 

"  If  you  are  going  to  speak  to  me  in  that  way,  perhaps  you 
had !" 

"Am  I  to  hear  my  native  country  run  down  and  not  say  a 
word  in  defense  of  it  ?" 

"  Oh  !  you  Scotch  people  make  such  a  fuss  about  your  na- 
tive country  !" 

"  We  Scotch  people  !  you  are  of  Scotch  extraction  yourself, 
and  you  ought  to  be  ashamed  to  talk  in  that  way.  I  wish  you 
good-morning  !" 

"  I  wish  you  a  better  temper  !" 

A  minute  since  the  two  young  ladies  had  been  like  twin 
roses  on  one  stalk.  Now  they  parted  with  red  cheeks  and 
hostile  sentiments  and  cutting  words.  How  ardent  is  the 
warmth  of  youth  !  how  unspeakably  delicate  the  fragility  of 
female  friendship  ! 

The  flock  of  visitors  followed  Mrs.  Delamayn  to  the  shores 
of  the  lake.  For  a  few  minutes  after  the  terrace  was  left  a 
solitude.  Then  there  appeared  under  the  porch  a  single  gen- 
tleman, lounging  out  with  a  flower  in  his  mouth  and  his  hands 
in  his  pockets.  This  was  the  strongest  man  at  Swanhaven — 
otherwise,  Geoffrey  Delamayn. 

After  a  moment  a  lady  appeared  behind  him,  walking  soft- 
ly, 80  as  not  to  be  heard.     She  was  superbly  dressed  after  the 


292  MAN    AND    WIFE. 

newest  and  the  most  costly  Parisian  design.  The  brooch  on 
her  bosom  was  a  single  diamond  of  resplendent  water  and 
great  size.  The  fan  in  her  hand  was  a  masterpiece  of  the  finest 
Indian  workmanship.  She  looked  what  she  was,  a  person  pos- 
sessed of  plenty  of  superfluous  money,  but  not  additionally 
blessed  with  plenty  of  superfluous  intelligence  to  correspond. 
This  was  the  childless  young  widow  of  the  great  iron-master — 
otherwise,  Mrs.  Glenai'm. 

The  rich  woman  tapped  the  strong  man  coquettishly  on  the 
shoulder  with  her  fan.  "Ah  !  you  bad  boy  !"  she  said,  with  a 
slightly-labored  archness  of  look  and  manner.  "  Have  I  found 
you  at  last !" 

Geoflfrey  sauntered  on  to  the  terrace — keeping  the  lady  be- 
hind him  with  a  thoroughly  savage  superiority  to  all  civilized 
submission  to  the  sex — and  looked  at  his  watch. 

"  I  said  I'd  come  here  when  I'd  got  half  an  hour  to  myself," 
)ie  mumbled,  turning  the  flower  carelessly  between  his  teeth. 
■*'  I've  got  half  an  hour,  and  here  I  am." 

"  Did  you  come  for  the  sake  of  seeing  the  visitors,  or  did 
you  come  for  the  sake  of  seeing  Me  ?" 

Geofirey  smiled  graciously,  and  gave  the  flower  another 
turn  in  his  teeth.     "  You,  of  course." 

The  iron-master's  widow  took  his  arm,  and  looked  up  at  him 
— as  only  a  young  woman  would  have  dared  to  look  up — with 
the  searching  summer  light  streaming  in  its  full  brilliancy  on 
her  face. 

Reduced  to  the  plain  expression  of  what  it  is  really  worth, 
the  average  English  idea  of  beauty  in  women  may  be  summed 
up  in  three  words — youth,  health,  plumpness.  The  more  spirit- 
ual charm  of  intelligence  and  vivacity,  the  subtler  attraction 
of  delicacy  of  line  and  fitness  of  detail,  are  little  looked  for 
and  seldom  appreciated  by  the  mass  of  men  in  this  island.  It 
is  impossible  otherwise  to  account  for  the  extraordinary  blind- 
ness of  perception  which  (to  give  one  instance  only)  makes 
nine  Englishmen  out  of  ten  who  visit  France  come  back  de- 
claring that  they  have  not  seen  a  single  pretty  Frenchwoman, 
in  or  out  of  Paris,  in  the  whole  country.  Our  popular  type  of 
beauty  proclaims  itself,  in  its  fullest  material  development,  at 
every  shop  in  which  an  illustrated  periodical  is  sold.  The 
sajne  fleshy-faced  girl,  with  the  same  inane  smile,  and  with  no 
other  expression  whatever,  appears  under  every  form  of  illus- 
tration, week  after  week,  and  month  after  month,  all  the  year 
round.  Those  who  wish  to  know  what  Mrs.  Glenarm  was  like, 
have  only  to  go  out  and  stop  at  any  bookseller's  or  news-ven- 
der's shop,  and  there  they  will  see  her  in  the  first  illustration, 
with  a  young  woman  in  it,  which  they  discover  in  the  window. 
The  one  noticeable  peculiarity  in  Mrs.  Glenarm's  purely  com- 


MAN    AND    WIFE.  293 

monplace  and  purely  material  beauty,  which  would  have  struck 
an  observant  and  a  cultivated  man,  was  the  curious  girlishness 
of  her  look  and  manner.  No  stranger  speaking  to  this  woman 
— who  had  been  a  wife  at  twenty,  and  who  was  now  a  widow 
at  twenty-four — would  ever  have  thought  of  addressing  her 
otherwise  than  as  "Miss." 

"  Is  that  the  use  you  make  of  a  flower  when  I  give  it  to 
you  ?"  she  said  to  GeoS'rey.  "  Mumbling  it  in  your  teeth,  you 
wretch,  as  if  you  were  a  horse  !" 

"  If  you  come  to  that,"  returned  Geoffrey,  "  I'm  more  a  horse 
than  a  man.  I'm  going  to  run  in  a  race,  and  the  public  are 
betting  on  me.     Haw  !  haw  !     Five  to  four." 

"  Five  to  four !  I  believe  he  thinks  of  nothing  but  betting. 
You  great  heavy  creature,  I  can't  move  you.  Don't  you  see  I 
want  to  go  like  the  rest  of  them  to  the  lake?  No;  you're  not 
to  let  go  of  my  arm  !     You're  to  take  me." 

"  Can't  do  it.     Must  be  back  with  Perry  in  half  an  hour." 

(Perry  was  the  trainer  from  London.  He  had  arrived  sooner 
than  he  had  been  expected,  and  had  entered  on  his  functions 
three  days  since.) 

"  Don't  talk  to  me  about  Perry !  A  little  vulgar  wretch. 
Put  him  off.  You  won't?  Do  you  mean  to  say  you  are  such 
a  brute  that  you  would  rather  be  with  Perry  than  be  with  me  ?" 

"  The  betting's  at  five  to  four,  my  dear.  And  the  race  comes 
off  in  a  month  from  this." 

"  Oh  !  go  away  to  your  beloved  Perry  !  I  hate  you.  I  hope 
you'll  lose  the  race.  Stop  in  your  cottage.  Pray  don't  come 
back  to  the  house.  And — mind  this  ! — don't  presume  to  say 
'my  dear'  to  me  again." 

"  It  ain't  presuming  half  far  enough,  is  it  ?  Wait  a  bit.  Give 
me  till  the  race  is  run — and  then  I'll  presume  to  marry  you." 

"  You  !  You  will  be  as  old  as  Methuselah,  if  you  wait  till  I 
am  your  wife.  I  dare  say  Perry  has  got  a  sister.  Suppose  you 
ask  him?     She  would  be  just  the  right  person  for  you." 

Geoffrey  gave  the  flower  another  turn  in  his  teeth,  and  look- 
ed as  if  he  thought  the  idea  worth  considering. 

"All  right,"  he  said.  "Any  thing  to  be  agreeable  to  you. 
I'll  ask  Perry." 

He  turned  away,  as  if  he  was  going  to  do  it  at  once.  Mrs. 
Glenarm  put  out  a  little  hand,  ravishingly  clothed  in  a  blush- 
colored-glove,  and  laid  it  on  the  athlete's  mighty  arm.  She 
pinched  those  iron  muscles  (the  pride  and  glory  of  England) 
gently.  "  What  a  man  you  are  !"  she  said.  "  I  never  met  with 
any  body  like  you  before  !" 

The  whole  secret  of  the  power  that  Geoffrey  had  acquired 
over  her  was  in  those  words. 

They  had  been  together  at  Swanhaven  for  little  more  than 


294  MAN    AND    WIFE. 

ten  days ;  and  in  that  time  he  had  made  the  conquest  of  Mrs. 
Glenaim.  On  the  day  before  the  garden-party — in  one  of  the 
leisure  intervals  allowed  him  by  Perry — he  had  caught  her 
alone,  had  taken  her  by  the  arm,  and  had  asked  her  in  so  many 
words,  if  she  would  marry  him.  Instances  on  record  of  wom- 
en who  have  been  wooed  and  won  in  ten  days  are — to  speak  it 
with  all  possible  respect — not  wanting.  But  an  instance  of  a 
woman  willing  to  have  it  known  still  remains  to  be  discover- 
ed. The  iron-master's  widow  exacted  a  promise  of  secrecy 
before  she  committed  herself  When  Geoffrey  had  pledged  his 
word  to  hold  his  tongue  in  public  until  she  gave  him  leave  to 
speak,  Mrs.  Glenarra,  without  further  hesitation,  said  Yes — hav- 
ing, be  it  observed,  said  No,  in  the  course  of  the  last  two  years, 
to  at  least  half  a  dozen  men  who  were  Geoffrey's  superiors  in 
every  conceivable  respect,  except  personal  comeliness  and  per- 
sonal strength. 

There  is  a  reason  for  every  thing ;  and  there  was  a  reason 
for  this. 

However  persistently  the  epicene  theorists  of  modern  times 
may  deny  it,  it  is  nevertheless  a  truth  plainly  visible  in  the 
whole  past  history  of  the  sexes  that  the  natural  condition  of  a 
woman  is  to  find  her  master  in  a  man.  Look  in  the  face  of  any 
woman  who  is  in  no  direct  way  dependent  on  a  man ;  and,  as 
certainly  as  you  see  the  sun  in  a  cloudless  sky,  you  see  a  wom- 
an who  is  not  happy.  The  want  of  a  master  is  their  great  un- 
known want;  the  possession  of  a  master  is — unconsciously  to 
themselves — the  only  possible  completion  of  their  lives.  In 
ninety-nine  cases  out  of  a  hundred  this  one  primitive  instinct  is 
at  the  bottom  of  the  otherwise  inexplicable  sacrifice,  when  we 
see  a  woman,  of  her  own  free-will,  throw  herself  away  on  a  man 
who  is  unworthy  of  her.  This  one  primitive  instinct  was  at 
the  bottom  of  the  otherwise  inexplicable  facility  of  self-surren- 
der exhibited  by  Mrs.  Glenarm. 

Up  to  the  time  of  her  meeting  with  Geoffrey,  the  young  wid- 
ow had  gathered  but  one  experience  in  her  intercourse  with 
the  world — the  experience  of  a  chartered  tyrant.  In  the  brief 
six  months  of  her  married  life  with  the  man  whose  granddaugh- 
ter she  might  have  been — and  ought  to  have  been — she  had 
only  to  lift  her  finger  to  be  obeyed.  The  doting  old  husband 
was  the  willing  slave  of  the  petulant  young  wife's  slightest  ca- 
price. At  a  later  period,  when  society  offered  its  triple  wel- 
come to  her  birth,  her  beauty,  and  her  wealth — go  where  she 
might,  she  found  herself  the  object  of  the  same  prostrate  admi- 
ration among  the  suitors  who  vied  with  each  other  in  the  rival- 
ry for  her  hand.  For  the  first  time  in  her  life  she  encountered 
a  man  with  a  will  of  his  own  when  she  met  Geoffrey  Delamayn 
at  Swanhaven  Lodge. 


MAN    AND    WIPE.  296 

Geoffi'ey's  occupation  of  the  moment  especially  favored  the 
conflict  between  the  woman's  assertion  of  her  influence  and 
the  man's  assertion  of  his  will. 

During  the  days  that  had  intervened  between  his  return  to 
his  brother's  house  and  the  arrival  of  the  trainer,  Geofi*rey  bad 
submitted  himself  to  all  needful  preliminaries  of  the  physical 
discipline  which  was  to  prepare  him  for  the  race.  He  knew, 
by  previous  experience,  what  exercise  he  ought  to  take,  what 
hours  he  ought  to  keep,  what  temptations  at  the  table  he  was 
bound  to  resist.  Over  and  over  again  Mrs.  Glenai'm  tried  to 
lure  him  into  committing  infractions  of  his  own  discipline — 
and  over  and  over  again  the  influence  with  men  which  had 
never  failed  her  before  failed  her  now.  Nothing  she  could  say, 
nothing  she  could  do,  would  move  this  man.  Perry  arrived ; 
and  Geofi'rey's  defiance  of  every  attempted  exercise  of  the 
charming  feminine  tyranny,  to  which  every  one  else  had  bow- 
ed, gi'ew  more  outrageous  and  more  immovable  than  ever. 
Mrs.  Glenarm  became  as  jealous  of  Perry  as  if  Perry  had  been 
a  woman.  She  flew  into  passions ;  she  burst  into  tears ;  she 
flirted  with  other  men  ;  she  threatened  to  leave  the  house. 
All  quite  useless ;  Geofi'rey  never  once  missed  an  appointment 
with  Perry ;  never  once  touched  any  thing  to  eat  or  drink  that 
she  could  ofier  him,  if  Perry  had  forbidden  it.  No  other  hu- 
man pursuit  is  so  hostile  to  the  influence  of  the  sex  as  the  pur- 
suit of  athletic  sports.  No  men  are  so  entirely  beyond  the 
reach  of  women  as  the  men  whose  lives  are  passed  in  the  culti- 
vation of  their  own  physical  strength.  Geofi'rey  resisted  Mrs. 
Glenarm  without  the  slightest  eftbrt.  He  casually  extorted 
her  admiration,  and  undesignedly  forced  her  respect.  She 
clung  to  him,  as  a  hero  ;  she  recoiled  from  him,  as  a  brute ;  she 
struggled  with  him,  submitted  to  him,  despised  him,  adored 
him,  in  a  breath.  And  the  clue  to  it  all,  confused  and  contra- 
dictory as  it  seemed,  lay  in  one  simple  fact — Mrs.  Glenarm  had 
found  her  master. 

"  Take  me  to  the  lake,  Geofi'rey !"  she  said,  with  a  little 
pleading  pressure  of  the  blush-colored  hand. 

Geofi'rey  looked  at  his  watch.  "  Perry  expects  me  in  twenty 
minutes,"  he  said. 

"  Perry  again  !" 

"Yes." 

Mrs.  Glenarm  raised  her  fan,  in  a  sudden  outburst  of  tury, 
and  broke  it  with  one  smart  blow  on  Geofi'rey's  face. 

"  There  !"  she  cried,  with  a  stamp  of  her  foot.  "  My  poor 
fan  broken  !     You  monster,  all  through  you !" 

Geoffrey  coolly  took  the  broken  fan  and  put  it  in  his  pocket. 
"  I'll  write  to  London,"  lie  said,  "  and  get  you  another.  Come 
along  !     Kiss,  and  make  it  up." 


296  MAX   AND   WIFK. 

He  looked  over  each  shoulder  to  make  sure  that  they  \vere 
alone ;  then  lifted  her  off  the  ground  (she  was  no  light  weight), 
held  her  up  in  the  air  like  a  baby,  and  gave  her  a  rough  loud- 
sounding  kiss  on  each  cheek,  "  With  kind  compliments  from 
yours  truly  I"  he  said — and  burst  out  laughing,  and  put  her 
down  again. 

"  How  dai'e  you  do  that  ?"  cried  Mrs.  Glenarm.  "  I  shall 
claim  Mrs.  Delamayn's  protection  if  I  am  to  be  insulted  in  this 
way!  I  will  never  forgive  you,  sir!"  As  she  said  those  in- 
dignant words  she  shot  a  look  at  him  which  flatly  contradicted 
them.  The  next  moment  she  was  leaning  on  his  arm,  and  was 
looking  at  him  wonderingly,  for  the  thousandth  time,  as  an 
entire  novelty  in  her  experience  of  male  humankind.  "  How 
rough  you  are,  Geoffrey  !"  she  said,  softly.  He  smiled  in  recog- 
nition of  that  artless  homage  to  the  manly  virtue  of  his  char- 
acter. She  saw  the  smile,  and  instantly  made  another  effort 
to  dispute  the  hateful  supremacy  of  Perry.  "  Put  him  off !" 
whispered  the  daughter  of  Eve,  determined  to  lure  Adam  into 
taking  a  bite  of  the  apple.  "  Come,  Geoffrey,  dear,  never  mind 
Perry,  this  once.     Take  me  to  the  lake  !" 

Geoffrey  looked  at  his  watch.  "  Perry  expects  me  in  a 
quarter  of  an  hour,"  he  said. 

Mrs.  Glenarm's  indignation  assumed  a  new  form.  She  burst 
out  crying.  Geoffrey  surveyed  her  for  a  moment  with  a  bi-oad 
stare  of  surprise — and  then  took  her  by  both  arms,  and  shook 
her. 

"  Look  here !"  he  said,  impatiently.  "  Can  you  coach  me 
through  my  training  ?" 

"  I  would  if  I  could  !" 

"  That's  nothing  to  do  with  it !  Can  yoa  turn  me  out,  fit, 
on  the  day  of  the  race  ?     Yes  ?  or  No  ?" 

"  No." 

"  Then  dry  your  eyes,  and  let  Perry  do  it." 

Mrs.  Glenarm  dried  her  eyes,  and  made  another  effort. 

"  Pm  not  fit  to  be  seen,"  she  said.  "  Pm  so  agitated,  I  don't 
know  what  to  do.  Come  indoors,  Geoffrey — and  have  a  cup 
of  tea." 

Geoffrey  shook  his  head.  "  Perry  forbids  tea,"  he  said,  "  in 
the  middle  of  the  day." 

"  You  brute  !"  cried  Mrs.  Glenarm. 

"  Do  you  want  me  to  lose  the  race  ?"  retorted  Geoffrey. 

"  Yes  !" 

With  that  answer  she  left  him  at  last,  and  ran  back  into  the 
liouse. 

Geoffrey  took  a  turn  on  the  terrace — considered  a  little — 
stopped — and  looked  at  the  porch  under  which  the  irate  widow 
had  disappeared  from  his  view.     "  Ten  thousand  a  yeai-,"  he 


MAN   AND    WIFE.  299 

said,  thinking  of  the  matrimonial  prospect  which  he  was  pla- 
cing in  peril.  "  And  devilish  well  earned,"  he  added,  going 
into  the  house,  under  protest,  to  appease  Mrs.  Glenarm. 

The  olFended  lady  was  on  a  sofa,  in  the  solitary  drawing- 
room.  Geoffrey  sat  down  by  her.  She  declined  to  look  at 
him.  "  Don't  be  a  foel !"  said  Geoffrey,  in  his  most  persuasive 
manner.  Mrs.  Glenarm  put  her  handkerchief  to  her  eyes. 
Geoffrey  took  it  away  again  without  ceremony.  Mrs.  Glenarm 
rose  to  leave  the  room.  Geoffrey  stopped  her  by  main  force. 
Mrs.  Glenarm  threatened  to  summon  the  servants.  Geoffrey 
said,  "All  right !  I  don't  care  if  the  whole  house  knows  I'm 
fond  of  you  !"  Mrs.  Glenarm  looked  at  the  door,  and  whispered, 
"  Hush  !  for  Heaven's  sake  !"  Geoffrey  put  her  arm  in  his,  and 
said,  "  Come  along  with  me  :  I've  got  something  to  say  to 
you."  Mrs.  Glenarm  drew  back,  and  shook  her  head.  Geof- 
frey put  his  arm  around  her  waist,  and  walked  her  out  of  the 
room,  and  out  of  the  house — taking  the  direction,  not  of  the 
terrace,  but  of  a  fir  plantation  on  the  opposite  side  of  the 
grounds.  Arrived  among  the  trees,  he  stopped  and  held  up  a 
warning  forefinger  before  the  offended  lady's  face.  "  You're 
just  the  sort  of  woman  I  like,"  he  said  ;  "  and  there  ain't  a  man 
living  w^ho's  half  as  sweet  on  you  as  I  am.  You  leave  off 
bullying  me  about  Perry,  and  I'll  tell  you  what  I'll  do — I'll  let 
you  see  me  take  a  Sprint." 

He  drew  back  a  step,  and  fixed  his  big  blue  eyes  on  her, 
with  a  look  which  said,  "  You  are  a  highly-favored  woman,  if 
ever  there  was  one  yet !"  Curiosity  instantly  took  the  leading 
place  among  the  emotions  of  Mrs.  Glenarm.  "  What's  a  Sprint, 
Geoffrey  ?"  she  asked. 

"A  short  run,  to  try  me  at  the  top  of  my  speed.  There  ain't 
another  living  soul  in  all  England  that  I'd  let  see  it  but  you. 
N^oio  am  I  a  brute  ?" 

Mrs.  Glenarm  was  conquered  again,  for  the  hundredth  time 
at  least.  She  said,  softly,  "  Oh,  Geoffrey,  if  you  could  only  be 
always  like  this  !"  Her  eyes  lifted  themselves  admiringly  to 
his.  She  took  his  arm  of  her  own  accord,  and  pressed  it  with 
a  loving  clasp.  Geoffrey  prophetically  felt  the  ten  thousand  a 
year  in  his  pocket.  "  Do  you  really  love  me  ?"  whispered  Mrs. 
Glenarm.  "  Don't  I !"  answered  the  hero.  The  peace  was 
made,  and  the  two  walked  on  again. 

They  passed  through  the  plantation,  and  came  out  on  some 
open  ground,  rising  and  falling  prettily,  in  little  hillocks  and 
hollows.  The  last  of  the  hillocks  sloped  down  into  a  smooth 
level  plain,  with  a  fringe  of  sheltering  trees  on  its  farther  side 
— with  a  snug  little  stone  cottage  among  the  trees — and  with 
a  smart  little  man,  walking  up  and  down  before  the  cottage, 
holding  his  hands  behind  him.     The  level  plain  was  the  hero's 


300  MAN    AND    WIFE. 

exercising  ground  ;  the  cottage  was  the  hero's  retreat ;  and  the 
smart  little  man  was  the  hero's  trainer. 

If  Mrs.  Glenarm  hated  Perry,  Perry  (judging  by  appearances) 
was  in  no  danger  of  loving  Mrs.  Glenarm.  As  Geoffrey  ap- 
proached with  his  companion,  the  trainer  came  to  a  stand-still, 
and  stared  silently  at  the  lady.  The  lady,  on  her  side,  declined 
to  observe  that  any  such  person  as  the  trainer  was  then  in  ex- 
istence, and  present  in  bodily  form  on  the  scene. 

"  How  about  time  ?"  said  Geoffrey. 

Perry  consulted  an  elaborate  watch,  constructed  to  mark  time 
to  the  fifth  of  a  second,  and  answered  Geoffrey,  with  his  eye  all 
the  while  on  Mrs.  Glenarm. 

"  You've  got  five  minutes  to  spare." 

"  Show  me  where  you  run  ;  Pm  dying  to  see  it !"  said  the  ea- 
ger widow,  taking  possession  of  Geoffrey's  arm  with  both  hands. 

Geoffrey  led  her  back  to  a  place  (marked  by  a  sapling  with 
a  little  flag  attached  to  it)  at  some  short  distance  from  the 
cottage.  She  glided  along  by  his  side,  wath  subtle  undulations 
ot  movement  which  appeared  to  complete  the  exasperation  of 
Perry.  He  waited  until  she  was  out  of  hearing — and  then  he 
invoked  (let  us  say)  the  blasts  of  heaven  on  the  fashionably- 
dressed  head  of  Mrs.  Glenarm. 

"  You  take  your  place  there,"  said  Geoffrey,  posting  her  by 
the  sapling.  "  When  I  pass  you — "  He  stopped,  and  surveyed 
her  with  a  good-humored,  masculine  pity.  "  How  the  devil  am 
I  to  make  you  understand  it  ?"  he  went  on.  "  Look  here !  when 
I  pass  you  it  will  be  at  w^hat  you  would  call  (if  I  was  a  horse) 
full  gallop.  Hold  your  tongue — I  haven't  done  yet.  You're 
to  look  on  after  me  as  I  leave  you,  to  where  the  edge  of  the 
cottage  wall  cuts  the  trees.  When  you  have  lost  sight  of  me 
behind  the  wall,  you'll  have  seen  me  run  my  three  hundred 
yards  from  this  flag.  You're  in  luck's  way  !  Perry  tries  me  at 
the  long  Sprint  to-day.  You  understand  you're  to  stop  here? 
Very  M^ell  then — let  me  go  and  get  my  toggery  on." 

"  Sha'n't  I  see  you  again,  Geoffrey  ?" 

"  Haven't  I  just  told  you  that  you'll  see  me  run  ?" 

"  Yes— but  after  that  ?" 

"  After  that,  Pm  sponged  and  rubbed  down — and  rest  in  the 
cottage." 

"  You'll  come  to  us  this  evening?" 

He  nodded  and  left  her.  The  face  of  Perry  looked  unutter- 
able things  when  he  and  Geoffrey  met  at  the  door  of  the  cottage. 

"  Pve  got  a  question  to  ask  you,  Mr.  Delamayn,"  said  the 
trainer.     "  Do  you  want  me  ?  or  don't  you  ?" 

"  Of  course  I  want  you." 

"  What  did  I  say  when  I  first  come  here  ?"  proceeded  Perry. 
sternly.     "  I  said  '  I  won't  have  nobody  a-looking  on  at  a  man 


MAN   AND   WIFE.  301 

I'm  training.  These  here  ladies  and  gentlemen  may  all  have 
made  up  their  minds  to  see  you,  I've  made  up  my  mind  not 
to  have  no  lookers-on.  I  won't  have  you  timed  at  your  work 
by  nobody  but  me.  I  won't  have  every  blessed  yard  of  ground 
you  cover  put  in  the  uoospapers.  I  won't  have  a  living  soul  in 
the  secret  of  what  you  can  do,  and  what  you  can't,  except  our 
two  selves.' — Did  I  say  that, Mr.  Delmayn?  or  didn't  I?" 

"All  right!" 

"Did  I  say  it?  or  didn't  I  ?" 

"  Of  course  you  did  !" 

"  Then  don't  you  bring  no  more  women  here.  It's  clean 
against  rules.     And  I  won't  have  it." 

Any  other  living  creature  adopting  this  tone  of  remonstrance 
would  probably  have  had  reason  to  repent  it.  But  Geoffrey 
himself  was  afraid  to  show  his  temper  in  the  presence  of  Perry. 
In  view  of  the  coming  race,  the  first  and  foremost  of  British 
trainers  was  not  to  be  trifled  with,  even  by  the  first  and  fore- 
most of  British  athletes. 

"  She  won't  come  again,"  said  Geoffrey.  "  She's  going  away 
from  Swanhaven  in  two  days'  time." 

"  I've  put  every  shilling  I'm  worth  in  the  world  on  you," 
pursued  Perry,  relapsing  into  tenderness.  "And  1  tell  you  I 
felt  it !  It  cut  me  to  the  heart  v>'hen  I  see  you  coming  along 
with  a  woman  at  your  heels.  It's  a  fraud  on  his  backers,  I 
says  to  myself — that's  what  it  is,  a  fraud  on  his  backers  !" 

"Shut  up  !"  said  Geoffrey.  "And  come  and  lielp  me  to  win 
your  money."  He  kicked  open  the  door  of  the  cottage — and 
athlete  and  trainer  disappeared  from  view. 

After  waiting  a  few  minutes  by  the  little  flag,  Mrs,  Glenarm 
saw  the  two  men  approaching  her  from  the  cottage.  Dressed 
in  a  close-fitting  costume,  light  and  elastic,  adapting  itself  to  ev- 
ery movement,  and  made  to  answer  every  purpose  required  by 
the  exercise  in  which  he  v/as  about  to  engage,  Geoffrey  s  phys- 
ical advantages  showed  themselves  in  their  best  and  bravest 
aspect.  His  head  sat  proud  and  easy  on  his  firm,  white  throat, 
bared  to  the  air.  The  rising  of  his  mighty  chest,  as  he  drew 
in  deep  draughts  of  the  fragrant  summer  breeze;  the  play  of 
his  lithe  and  supple  loins  ;  the  easy,  elastic  stride  of  his  straight 
and  shapely  legs,  presented  a  triumph  of  physical  manhood  in 
its  highest  type,  Mrs,  Glenarm's  eyes  devoured  him  in  silent 
admiration.  He  looked  like  a  young  god  of  mythology — like 
a  statue  animated  with  color  and  life.  "  Oh,  Geoffrey  !"  she 
exclaimed,  softly,  as  he  went  by.  He  neither  answered  nor 
looked :  he  had  other  business  on  hand  than  listening  to  soft 
nonsense.  He  was  gathering  himself  up  for  the  efibrt ;  his  lips 
were  set ;  his  fists  were  lightly  clenched.  Perry  posted  him- 
self at  his  place,  grim  and  silent,  with  the  watch  in  his  hand. 


302  MAN    AND    WIPE, 

Geoffrey  walked  on  beyond  the  flag,  so  as  to  give  himself  start 
enough  to  reach  his  full  speed  as  he  passed  it.  "  Now  then  I" 
said  Perry.  In  an  instant  more  lie  flew  by  (to  Mrs.  Glenarm's 
excited  imagination)  like  an  arrow  from  a  bow.  His  action 
was  perfect.  His  speed,  at  its  utmost  rate  of  exertion,  pre- 
served its  rare  underlying  elements  of  strength  and  steadiness. 
Less  and  less  and  less  he  grew  to  the  eyes  that  followed  his 
course  ;  still  lightly  flying  over  the  ground,  still  firmly  keeping 
the  straight  line.  A  moment  more,  and  the  runner  vanished 
behind  the  wall  of  the  cottage,  and  the  stop-watch  of  the  train- 
er returned  to  its  place  in  his  pocket. 

In  her  eagerness  to  know  the  result,  Mrs.  Glenarm  forgot  her 
jealousy  of  Perry. 

"How  long  has  he  been  ?"  she  asked. 

"  There's  a  good  many  besides  you  would  be  glad  to  know 
that,"  said  Perry. 

"  Mr.  Delamayn  will  tell  me,  you  rude  man !" 

"That  depends,  ma'am,  on  whether  Ztell  him.'''' 

With  this  reply.  Perry  hurried  back  to  the  cottage. 

Not  a  word  passed  while  the  trainer  was  attending  to  his 
man,  and  while  the  man  was  recovering  his  breath.  When 
Geoffrey  had  been  carefully  rubbed  down,  and  clothed  again 
in  his  ordinary  garments,  Perry  pulled  a  comfortable  easy-chair 
out  of  a  corner.  Geoffrey  fell  into  the  chair,  rather  than  sat 
down  in  it.     Perry  started,  and  looked  at  him  attentively. 

"Well?"  said  Geoffrey.  "How  about  the  time?  Long? 
short  ?  or  middling  ?" 

"  Very  good  time,"  said  Perry. 

*'  How  long  ?" 

"  When  did  you  say  the  lady  was  going,  Mr.  Delamayn  ?" 

"  In  two  days." 

"Very  well,  sir.  I'll  tell  you  'how  long'  when  the  lady's 
gone." 

GeoftVey  made  no  attempt  to  insist  on  an  immediate  reply. 
He  smiled  faintly.  After  an  interval  of  less  than  ten  minutes 
he  stretched  out  his  legs  and  closed  his  eyes. 

"  Going  to  sleep  ?"  said  Perry. 

Geoffrey  opened  his  eyes  with  an  effort.  "No,"  he  said. 
The  word  had  hardly  passed  his  lips  before  his  eyes  closed 
again. 

"  Halloo !"  said  Perry,  watching  him.     "  I  don't  like  that." 

He  went  closer  to  the  chair.  There  was  no  doubt  about  it. 
The  man  was  asleep. 

Perry  emitted  a  long  whistle  under  his  breath.  He  stooped 
and  laid  two  of  his  fingers  softly  on  Geoffrey's  pulse.  The 
beat  was  slow,  heavy,  and  labored.  It  was  unmistakably  the 
pulse  of  an  exhausted  man. 


MAN   AND    WIFE.  803 

The  trainer  changed  color,  and  took  a  turn  in  the  room. 
He  opened  a  cupboard,  and  produced  from  it  his  diary  of  the 
preceding  year.  The  entries  relating  to  the  last  occasion  on 
which  he  had  prepared  Geoifrey  for  a  foot-race  included  the 
fullest  details.  He  turned  to  the  report  of  the  first  trial,  at 
three  hundred  yards,  full  speed.  The  time  was,  by  one  or  two 
seconds,  not  so  good  as  the  time  on  this  occasion.  But  the 
result,  afterward,  was  utterly  different.  There  it  was,  in  Per- 
ry's own  words:  "Pulse  good.  Man  in  high  spirits.  Ready, 
if  I  would  have  let  him,  to  run  it  over  again." 

Perry  looked  round  at  the  same  man,  a  year  afterward — ut- 
terly worn  out,  and  fast  asleep  in  the  chair. 

He  fetched  pen,  ink,  and  paper  out  of  the  cupboard,  and 
wrote  two  letters — both  marked  "  Private."  The  first  was  to 
a  medical  man,  a  great  authority  among  trainers.  The  second 
was  to  Pei-ry's  own  agent  in  London,  whom  he  knew  he  could 
trust.  The  letter  pledged  the  agent  to  the  strictest  secrecy, 
and  directed  him  to  back  Geoffrey's  opponent  in  the  Foot-race 
for  a  sum  equal  to  the  sum  which  Perry  had  betted  on  Geof- 
frey himself.  "If  you  have  got  any  money  of  your  own  on 
him,"  the  letter  concluded,  "  do  as  I  do.  '  Hedge ' — and  hold 
your  tongue." 

"Another  of 'em  gone  stale  !"  said  the  trainer,  looking  round 
again  at  the  sleeping  man.     "  He'll  lose  the  race." 


CHAPTER  THE  THHITY-SECOND. 

SEEDS    OF  THE    FUTURE    (sECOND   SOWING). 

And  what  did  the  visitors  say  of  the  Swans  ? 

They  said,  "  Oh,  what  a  number  of  them !" — which  was  all 
that  was  to  be  said  by  persons  ignorant  of  the  natural  history 
of  aquatic  birds. 

And  what  did  the  visitors  say  of  the  lake  ? 

Some  of  them  said,  "  How  solemn  !"  Some  of  them  said, 
"  How  romantic  !"  Some  of  them  said  nothing — but  privately 
thought  it  a  dismal  scene. 

Here  again  the  popular  sentiment  struck  the  right  note  at 
starting.  The  lake  was  hidden  in  the  centre  of  a  fir-wood. 
Except  in  the  middle,  where  the  sunlight  reached  them,  the 
waters  lay  black  under  the  sombre  shadow  of  the  trees.  The 
one  break  in  the  plantation  was  at  the  farther  end  of  the  lake. 
The  one  sign  of  movement  and  life  to  be  seen  was  the  ghostly 
gliding  of  the  swans  on  the  dead-still  surface  of  the  water.  It 
was  solemn — as  they  said ;  it  was  romantic — as  they  said.     It 


804  MAN    AND    WIFE. 

was  dismal — as  they  thought.  Pages  of  description  could  ex- 
press no  more.  Let  pages  of  description  be  absent,  therefore, 
in  this  place. 

Having  satiated  itself  with  the  swans,  having  exhausted  the 
lake,  the  general  curiosity  reverted  to  the  break  in  the  trees  at 
the  farther  end — remarked  a  startlingly  artificial  object,  intrud- 
ing itself  on  the  scene,  in  the  shape  of  a  large  red  curtain,  which 
hung  between  two  of  the  tallest  firs,  and  closed  the  prospect  be- 
yond from  view — requested  an  explanation  of  tlie  curtain  from 
Julius  Delamayn  —  and  received  for  answer  that  the  mystery 
should  be  revealed  on  the  arrival  of  his  wife  with  the  tardy 
remainder  of  the  guests  who  had  loitered  about  the  house. 

On  the  appearance  of  Mrs.  Delamayn  and  the  stragglers,  the 
united  party  coasted  the  shore  of  the  lake,  and  stood  assembled 
in  front  of  the  curtain.  Pointing  to  the  silken  cords,  hanging 
at  either  side  of  it,  Julius  Delamayn  picked  out  two  little  girls 
(children  of  his  wife's  sister),  and  sent  them  to  the  cords,  with 
instructions  to  pull,  and  see  what  happened.  The  nieces  of 
Julius  pulled  with  the  eager  hands  of  children  in  the  presence 
of  a  mystery — the  curtains  parted  in  the  middle,  and  a  cry  of 
universal  astonishment  and  delight  saluted  the  scene  revealed 
to  view. 

At  the  end  of  a  broad  avenue  of  firs  a  cool  green  glade 
spread  its  grassy  carpet  in  the  midst  of  the  surrounding  plan- 
tation. The  ground  at  the  farther  end  of  the  glade  rose;  and 
here,  on  the  lower  slopes,  a  bright  little  spring  of  water  bub- 
bled out  between  gray  old  granite  rocks.  Along  the  right- 
hand  edge  of  the  turf  ran  a  row  of  tables,  arrayed  in  spotless 
white,  and  covered  with  refreshments  waiting  for  the  guests. 
On  the  opposite  side  was  a  band  of  music,  which  burst  into 
harmony  at  the  moment  when  the  curtains  were  drawn. 
Looking  back  through  the  avenue,  the  eye  caught  a  distant 
glimpse  of  the  lake,  where  the  sunlight  played  on  the  water, 
and  the  plumage  of  the  gliding  swans  flashed  softly  in  brilliant 
white.  Such  was  the  chai-ming  surprise  which  Julius  Dela- 
mayn had  arranged  for  his  friends.  It  was  only  at  moments 
like  these — or  when  he  and  his  wife  were  playing  Sonatas  in 
the  modest  little  music-room  at  Swanhaven — that  Lord  Hol- 
chester's  eldest  son  was  really  happy.  He  secretly  groaned 
over  the  duties  which  his  position  as  a  landed  gentleman  im- 
posed upon  him;  and  he  suffered  under  some  of  the  highest 
privileges  of  his  rank  and  station  as  under  social  martyrdom 
in  its  crudest  form. 

"  We'll  dine  first,"  said  Julius, "  and  dance  afterward.  There 
is  the  programme !" 

He  led  the  way  to  the  tables,  with  the  two  ladies  nearest  to 
him — utterly  careless  whether  they  were  or  were  not  among 


MAN    AND    WIPE.  805 

the  ladies  of  the  highest  rank  theu  present.  To  Lady  Lundie's 
astonishment  he  took  the  first  seat  he  came  to,  without  appear- 
ing to  care  what  place  he  occupied  at  his  own  feast.  The 
guests,  following  his  example,  sat  where  they  pleased,  reckless 
of  precedents  and  dignities.  Mrs.  Delaraayn,  feeling  a  special 
interest  in  a  young  lady  who  was  shortly  to  be  a  bride,  took 
Blanche's  arm.  Lady  Lundie  attached  herself  resolutely  to 
her  hostess  on  the  other  side.  The  three  sat  together.  Mrs. 
Delamayn  did  her  best  to  encourage  Blanche  to  talk,  and 
Blanche  did  her  best  to  meet  the  advances  made  to  her.  The 
experiment  succeeded  but  poorly  on  either  side.  Mrs.  Dela- 
raayn gave  it  up  in  despair,  and  turned  to  Lady  Lundie,  with 
a  strong  suspicion  that  some  unpleasant  subject  of  reflection 
was  preying  privately  on  the  bride's  mind.  The  conclusion 
was  soundly  drawn.  Blanche's  little  outbreak  of  temper  with 
her  friend  on  the  terrace,  and  Blanche's  present  deficiency  of 
gayety  and  spirit,  were  attributable  to  the  same  cause.  She 
hid  it  from  her  uncle,  she  hid  it  from  Arnold — but  she  was  as 
anxious  as  ever,  and  as  wretched  as  ever,  about  Anne;  and  she 
was  still  on  the  watch  (no  matter  what  Sir  Patrick  might  say 
or  do)  to  seize  the  first  opportunity  of  renewing  the  search  for 
her  lost  friend. 

Meanwhile  the  eating,  the  drinking,  and  the  talking  went 
merrily  on.  The  band  played  its  liveliest  melodies ;  the  serv- 
ants kept  the  glasses  constantly  filled :  round  all  the  tables 
gayety  and  freedom  reigned  supreme.  The  one  conversation 
in  progress,  in  which  the  talkers  were  not  in  social  harmony 
with  each  other,  was  the  conversation  at  Blanche's  side,  be- 
tween her  stepmother  and  Mrs.  Delamayn. 

Among  Lady  Lundie's  other  accomplishments  the  power  of 
making  disagreeable  discoveries  ranked  high.  At  the  dinner 
in  the  glade  she  had  not  failed  to  notice — what  every  body 
else  had  passed  over — the  absence  at  the  festival  of  the  host- 
ess's brother-in-law ;  and  more  remarkable  still,  the  disappear- 
ance of  a  lady  who  was  actually  one  of  the  guests  staying  in 
the  house:  in  plainer  words,  the  disappearance  of  Mrs.  Glen- 
arm. 

"Am  I  mistaken?"  said  her  ladyship,  lifting  her  eyeglass, 
and  looking  round  the  tables.  "  Surely  there  is  a  member  of 
our  party  missing  ?     I  don't  see  Mr.  Geoff'rey  Delamayn." 

"  Geoffrey  promised  to  be  here.  But  he  is  not  particularly 
attentive,  as  you  may  have  noticed,  to  keeping  engagements 
of  this  sort.  Every  thing  is  sacrificed  to  his  training.  We 
only  see  him  at  rare  intervals  now." 

With  that  reply  Mrs.  Delamayn  attempted  to  change  the 
subject.     Lady  Lundie  lifted  her  eyeglass,  and  looked  round 
the  tables  for  the  second  time. 
20 


306  MAN   AND   WIFE. 

"Pardon  me,"  persisted  her  ladyship — "but  is  it  possible 
that  I  have  discovered  another  absentee '?  I  don't  see  Mrs. 
Glenarm.  Yet  surely  she  must  be  here !  Mrs.  Glenarm  is  not 
training  for  a  foot-race.     Do  you  see  her  ?     I  don't." 

"I  missed  her  when  we  went  out  on  the  terrace,  and  I  have 
not  seen  her  since." 

"  Isn't  it  very  odd,  dear  Mrs.  Delamayn  ?" 

"Our  guests  at  Swanhaven,  Lady  Lundie,  have  perfect  liber- 
ty to  do  as  they  please." 

In  those  words  Mrs.  Delamayn  (as  she  fondly  imagined)  dis- 
missed the  subject.  But  Lady  Lundie's  robust  curiosity  proved 
unassailable  by  even  the  broadest  hint.  Carried  away,  in  all 
probability,  by  the  infection  of  merriment  about  her,  her  lady- 
ship displayed  unexpected  reserves  of  vivacity.  The  mind  de- 
clines to  realize  it ;  but  it  is  not  the  less  true  that  this  majes- 
tic woman  actually  simpered ! 

"  Shall  we  put  two  and  two  together  ?"  said  Lady  Lundie, 
with  a  ponderous  playfulness  wonderful  to  see.  "  Here,  on 
the  one  hand,  is  Mr.  Geoffrey  Delamayn — a  young  single  man. 
And  hei'e,  on  the  other,  is  Mrs.  Glenarm  —  a  young  widow. 
Rank  on  the  side  of  the  young  single  man ;  riches  on  the  side 
of  the  young  widow.  And  both  mysteriously  absent  at  the 
same  time,  from  the  same  pleasant  party.  Ha,  Mrs.  Delamayn ! 
should  I  guess  wrong  if  I  guessed  that  you  will  have  a  mar- 
riage in  the  family,  too,  before  long  ?" 

Mrs.  Delamayn  looked  a  little  annoyed.  She  had  entered, 
with  all  he  heart,  into  the  conspiracy  for  making  a  match  be- 
tween Geoffrey  and  Mrs.  Glenarm.  But  she  was  not  prepared 
to  own  that  the  lady's  facility  had  (in  spite  of  all  attempts  to 
conceal  it  from  discovery)  made  the  conspiracy  obviously  suc- 
cessful in  ten  days'  time. 

"  I  am  not  in  the  secrets  of  the  lady  and  gentleman  whom 
you  mention,"  she  replied,  dryly. 

A  heavy  body  is  slow  to  acquire  movement — and  slow  to 
abandon  movement,  when  once  acquired.  The  playfulness  of 
Lady  Lundie,  being  essentially  heavy,  followed  the  same  rule. 
She  still  persisted  in  being  as  lively  as  ever. 

"Oh,  what  a  diplomatic  answer !"  exclaimed  her  ladyship. 
"I  think  I  can  interpret  it,  though,  for  all  that.  A  little  bird 
tells  me  that  I  shall  see  a  Mrs.  Geoffrey  Delamayn  in  London 
next  season.  And  I,  for  one,  shall  not  be  surprised  to  find  my- 
self congratulating  Mrs.  Glenarm." 

"If  you  persist  in  letting  your  imagination  run  away  with 
you.  Lady  Lundie,  I  can't  possibly  help  it.  I  can  only  request 
permission  to  keep  the  bridle  on  wime." 

This  time  even  Lady  Lundie  understood  that  it  would  be 
wise  to  say  no  more.     She  smiled  and  nodded,  in  high  private 


MAN    ANT)   WIFB.  807 

approval  of  her  own  extraordinary  cleverness.  If  she  had 
been  asked  at  that  moment  who  was  the  most  brilliant  En- 
glishwoman living,  she  would  have  looked  inward  on  herself — 
and  would  have  seen,  as  in  a  glass  brightly,  Lady  Lundie,  of 
Windj'gates. 

From  the  moment  when  the  talk  at  her  side  entered  on  the 
subject  of  Geoffrey  Delamayn  and  Mrs.  Glenarm — and  through- 
out the  brief  period  during  which  it  remained  occupied  with 
that  topic — Blanche  became  conscious  of  a  strong  smell  of 
some  spirituous  liquor;  wafted  down  on  her,  as  she  fancied, 
from  behind  and  from  above.  Finding  the  odor  grow  stronger 
and  stronger,  she  looked  round  to  see  whether  any  special  man- 
ufacture of  grog  was  proceeding  inexplicably  at  the  back  of 
her  chair.  The  moment  she  moved  her  head,  her  attention 
was  claimed  by  a  pair  of  tremulous  gouty  old  hands,  offering 
her  a  grouse  pie,  profusely  sprinkled  with  truffles. 

"  Eh,  my  bonny  miss !"  whispered  a  persuasive  voice  at  her 
ear,  "  ye're  joost  stairving  in  a  land  o'  plenty.  Tak'  my  ad- 
vice, and  ye'll  tak'  the  best  thing  at  tebble — groose-poy  and 
trufflers." 

Blanche  looked  up. 

There  he  was — the  man  of  the  canny  eye,  the  fatherly  man- 
ner, and  the  mighty  nose — Bishopriggs — preserved  in  spirits, 
and  ministering  at  the  festival  at  Swanhaven  Lodge ! 

Blanche  had  only  seen  him  for  a  moment  on  the  memorable 
night  of  the  storm,  when  she  had  surprised  Anne  at  the  inn. 
But  instants  passed  in  the  society  of  Bishopriggs  were  as  good 
as  hours  spent  in  the  company  of  inferior  men.  Blanche  in- 
stantly recognized  him ;  instantly  called  to  mind  Sir  Patrick's 
conviction  that  he  was  in  possession  of  Anne's  lost  letter ;  in- 
stantly rushed  to  the  conclusion  that,  in  discovering  Bishop- 
riggs, she  had  discovered  a  chance  of  tracing  Anne.  Her  first 
impulse  was  to  claim  acquaintance  with  him  on  the  spot.  But 
the  eyes  of  her  neighbors  were  on  her,  warning  her  to  wait. 
She  took  a  little  of  the  pie,  and  looked  hard  at  Bishopriggs. 
That  discreet  man,  showing  no  sign  of  recognition  on  his  side, 
bowed  respectfully,  and  went  on  round  the  table. 

"I  wonder  whether  he  has  got  the  letter  about  him?" 
thought  Blanche. 

He  had  not  only  got  the  letter  about  him — but,  more  than 
that,  he  was  actually  then  on  the  look-out  for  the  means  of 
turning  the  letter  to  profitable  pecuniary  account. 

The  domestic  establishment  of  Swanhaven  Lodge  included 
no  formidable  array  of  servants.  When  Mrs.  Delamayn  gave 
a  large  party,  she  depended  for  such  additional  assistance  as 
was  needed  partly  on  the  contributions  of  her  friends,  partly 
on  the  resources  of  the  principal  inn  at   Kirkandrew.     Mr, 


308  M>N    AISTD    WIFE. 

Bishopriggs,  serving  at  the  time  (in  the  absence  of  any  bet- 
ter employment)  as  a  supernumerary  at  the  inn,  made  one 
among  the  waiters  who  could  be  spared  to  assist  at  the  gar- 
den-party. The  name  of  the  gentleman  by  whom  he  was  to 
be  employed  for  the  day  had  struck  him,  when  he  first  heard 
it,  as  having  a  familiar  sound.  He  had  made  his  inquiries ; 
and  had  then  betaken  himself,  for  additional  information,  to 
the  letter  which  he  had  picked  up  from  the  parlor  floor  at 
Craig  Fernie. 

The  sheet  of  note-paper,  lost  by  Anne,  contained,  it  may  be 
remembered,  two  letters — one  signed  by  herself;  the  other 
signed  by  Geoffrey — and  both  suggestive,  to  a  stranger's  eye, 
of  relations  between  the  writers  which  they  were  interested  in 
concealing  from  the  public  view. 

Thinking  it  just  possible — if  he  kept  his  eyes  and  ears  well 
open  at  Swanhaven — that  he  might  improve  his  prospect  of 
making  a  marketable  commodity  of  the  stolen  correspondence, 
Mr.  Bishopriggs  had  put  the  letter  in  his  pocket  when  he  left 
Kirkandrew.  He  had  recognized  Blanche,  as  a  friend  of  the 
lady  at  the  inn — and  as  a  person  who  might  be  perhaps  turned 
to  account,  in  that  capacity.  And  he  had,  moreover,  heard  ev- 
ery word  of  the  conversation  between  Lady  Lundie  and  Mrs. 
Delamayn  on  the  subject  of  Geoffrey  and  Mrs.  Glenarm.  There 
were  hours  to  be  passed  before  the  guests  would  retire,  and 
before  the  waiters  would  be  dismissed.  The  conviction  was 
strong  in  the  mind  of  Mr.  Bishopriggs  that  he  might  find  good 
reason  yet  for  congratulating  himself  on  the  chance  which  had 
associated  him  with  the  festivities  at  Swanhaven  Lodge. 

It  was  still  early  in  the  afternoon  when  the  gayety  at  the 
dinner-table  began,  in  certain  quarters,  to  show  signs  of  wear- 
ing out. 

The  young  members  of  the  party — especially  the  ladies — 
grew  restless  with  the  appearance  of  the  dessert.  One  after 
another  they  looked  longingly  at  the  smooth  level  of  elastic 
tiirf  in  the  middle  of  the  glade.  One  after  another  they  beat 
time  absently  with  their  fingers  to  the  waltz  which  the  musi- 
cians happened  to  be  playing  at  the  moment.  Noticing  these 
symptoms,  Mrs.  Delamayn  set  the  example  of  rising  ;  and  her 
husband  sent  a  message  to  the  band.  In  ten  minutes  more 
the  first  quadrille  was  in  progress  on  the  grass  ;  the  spectators 
were  picturesquely  grouped  round,  looking  on  ;  and  the  serv- 
ants and  waiters,  no  longer  wanted,  had  retired  out  of  sight, 
to  a  picnic  of  their  own. 

The  last  person  to  leave  the  deserted  tables  was  the  vener- 
able Bishopriggs.  He  alone,  of  the  men  in  attendance,  had 
contrived  to  combine  a  sufficient  appearance  of  waiting  on  the 
company  with  a   clandestine  attention  to  his   own  personal 


MAN    AND    WIFE.  309 

need  of  refreshment.  Instead  of  hurrying  away  to  the  serv- 
ants' dinner  with  the  rest,  he  made  the  round  of  the  tables,  ap- 
parently clearing  away  the  crumbs  —  actually,  emptying  the 
wine-glasses.  Immersed  in  this  occupation,  he  was  startled 
by  a  lady's  voice  behind  him,  and,  turning  as  quickly  as  he 
could,  found  himself  face  to  face  with  Miss  Lundie. 

"  I  want  some  cold  water,"  said  Blanche.  "  Be  so  good  as 
to  get  me  some  from  the  spring." 

She  pointed  to  the  bubbling  rivulet  at  the  farther  end  of  the 
glade. 

Bishopriggs  looked  unaffectedly  shocked. 

"  Lord's  sake,  miss,"  he  exclaimed,  "  d'ye  relly  mean  to  of- 
fend yer  stomach  \vi'  cauld  water  —  when  there's  wine  to  be 
had  for  the  asking  !" 

Blanche  gave  him  a  look.  Slowness  of  perception  was  not 
on  the  list  of  the  failings  of  Bishopriggs.  He  took  up  a  tum- 
bler, winked  with  his  one  available  eye,  and  led  the  way  to 
tlie  rivulet.  There  was  nothing  remarkable  in  the  spectacle 
of  a  young  lady  who  wanted  a  glass  of  spring-water,  or  of  a 
waiter  who  was  getting  it  for  her.  Nobody  was  surprised  ; 
and  (with  the  band  playing)  nobody  could  by  any  chance  over- 
hear what  might  be  said  at  the  spring-side. 

"Do  you  remember  me  at  the  inn  on  the  night  of  the 
Rtorm?"  asked  Blanche. 

Mr.  Bishopriggs  had  his  reasons  (carefully  inclosed  in  his 
pocket-book)  for  not  being  too  ready  to  commit  himself  with 
Blanche  at  starting. 

"  I'm  no'  saying  I  eanna  remember  ye,  miss.  Whar's  the 
man  would  raak'  sic  an  answer  as  that  to  a  bonny  young  leddy 
iike  you?" 

By  way  of  assisting  his  memory  Blanche  took  out  her  purse. 
Bishopriggs  became  absorbed  in  the  scenery.  He  looked  at 
the  running  water  with  the  eye  of  a  man  who  thoroughly  dis- 
trusted it,  viewed  as  a  beverage. 

"  There  ye  go,"  he  said,  addressing  himself  to  the  rivulet, 
"  bubblin'  to  yer  ain  annihilation  in  the  loch  yonder !  It's  lit- 
tle I  know  that's  gude  aboot  ye,  in  yer  unconvairted  state. 
Ye're  a  type  o'  human  life,  they  say.  I  tak'  up  my  testimony 
against  tliat.  Ye're  a  type  o'  naething  at  all  till  ye're  heated 
wi'  fire,  and  sweetened  wi'  sugar,  and  strengthened  wi'  whusky ; 
and  then  ye're  a  type  o'  toddy — and  human  life  (I  grant  it) 
has  got  something  to  say  to  ye  in  that  capacity  !" 

"  I  have  heard  more  about  you  since  I  was  at  the  inn,"  pro- 
ceeded Blanche,  "  than  you  may  suppose."  (She  opened  hef 
purse :  Mr.  Bishopriggs  became  the  picture  of  attention.) 
"  You  were  very,  very  kind  to  a  lady  who  was  staying  at  Craig 
Fernie,"  she  went  on,  earnestly.     "  I  know  that  you  have  lost 


810  MAN    ANL»    WIFE. 

your  place  at  the  inn,  because  you  gave  all  your  attention  to 
that  lady.  She  is  my  dearest  friend,  Mr.  Bishopriggs.  I  want 
to  thank  you.  I  do  thank  you.  Please  accept  what  I  have 
got  here  ?" 

All  the  girl's  heart  was  in  her  eyes  and  in  her  voice  as  she 
emptied  her  purse  into  the  gouty  (and  greedy)  old  hand  of 
Bishopriggs. 

A  young  lady  with  a  well-filled  purse  (no  matter  how  rich 
the  young  lady  may  be)  is  a  combination  not  often  witnessed 
in  any  country  on  the  civilized  earth.  Either  the  money  is  al- 
ways spent,  or  the  money  has  been  forgotten  on  the  toilet-ta- 
ble at  home.  Blanche's  purse  contained  a  sovereign  and  some 
six  or  seven  shillings  in  silver.  As  pocket-money  for  an  heir- 
ess it  was  contemptible.  But  as  a  gratuity  to  Bishopriggs  it 
was  magnificent.  The  old  rascal  put  the  money  into  his  pocket 
with  one  hand,  and  dashed  away  the  tears  of  sensibility,  which 
he  had  not  shed,  with  the  other. 

"  Cast  yer  bread  on  the  waters,"  cried  Mr.  Bishopriggs,  with 
his  one  eye  raised  devotionally  to  the  sky,  "  and  ye  sail  find  it 
again  after  monny  days !  Hech  !  hech  !  didna  I  say  when  I 
first  set  eyes  on  that  puir  leddy,  '  I  feel  like  a  fether  to  ye '?' 
It's  seemply  mairvelous  to  see  hoo  a  man's  ain  gude  deeds  find 
him  oot  in  this  lower  warld  o'  ours.  If  ever  I  heard  the  voice 
o'  naitural  afiection  speaking  in  my  ain  breast,"  pursued  Mr. 
Bishopriggs,  with  his  eye  fixed  in  uneasy  expectation  on 
Blanche,  "  it  joost  spak'  trumpet-tongued  when  that  winsome 
creature  first  lookit  at  me.  Will  it  be  she  now  that  told  ye 
of  the  wee  bit  sairvice  I  rendered  to  her  in  the  time  when  I 
was  in  bondage  at  the  hottle  ?" 

"  Yes — she  told  me  herself" 

"Might  I  mak'  sae  bauld  as  to  ask  whar'  she  may  be  at  the 
present  time  ?" 

"I  don't  know,  Mr,  Bishopriggs.  I  am  more  miserable 
about  it  than  I  can  say.  She  has  gone  away  —  and  I  don't 
know  where." 

"Ow  !  ow !  that's  bad.  And  the  bit  husband-creature  dan- 
glin'  at  her  petticoat's  tail  one  day,  and  awa'  wi'  the  sunrise 
next  mornin' — have  they  baith  taken  leg-bail  together  ?" 

"I  know  nothing  of  him;  I  never  saw  him.  You  saw  him. 
Tell  me — what  was  he  like  ?" 

"Eh!  he  was  joost  a  puir  weak  creature.  Didn't  know  a 
glass  o'  good  sherry-wine  when  he'd  got  it.  Free  wi'  the  siller 
— that's  a'  ye  can  say  for  him — free  wi'  the  siller  !" 

Finding  it  impossible  to  extract  from  Mr.  Bishopriggs  any 
clearer  description  of  the  man  who  had  been  with  Anne  at  the 
inn  than  this,  Blanche  approached  the  main  object  of  the  inter- 
view.    Too  anxious  to  waste  time  m  circumlocution,  she  turn- 


MAN    AND    WIFE.  311 

ed  the  conversation  at  once  to  the  delicate  and  doubtful  sub- 
ject of  the  lost  letUT. 

"  There  is  something  else  that  I  want  to  say  to  you,"  she  re- 
sumed.   "  My  friend  had  a  loss  while  she  was  staying  at  the  inn." 

The  clouds  of  doubt  rolled  off  the  mind  of  Mr,  Bishopriggs. 
The  lady's  friend  knew  of  the  lost  letter.  And,  better  still,  the 
lady's  friend  looked  as  if  she  wanted  it! 

"  Ay  !  ay  !"  he  said,  with  all  due  appearance  of  carelessness. 
"Like  eneugh.  From  the  mistress  downward,  they're  a'  kittle 
cattle  at  the  inn  since  I've  left  'em.  What  may  it  ha'  been 
that  she  lost  ?" 

"  She  lost  a  letter." 

The  look  of  uneasy  expectation  re-appeared  in  the  eye  of 
Mr.  Bishopriggs.  It  was  a  question — and  a  serious  question, 
from  his  point  of  view — whether  any  suspicion  of  theft  was  at- 
tached to  the  disappearance  of  the  letter. 

"  When  ye  say  '  lost,' "  he  asked,  "  d'ye  mean  stolen  ?" 

Blanche  was  quite  quick  enough  to  see  the  necessity  of  quiet- 
ing his  mind  on  this  point. 

"  Oh  no !"  she  answered.  "  Not  stolen.  Only  lost.  Did 
you  hear  about  it  ?" 

"  Wherefore  suld  I  ha'  heard  aboot  it  ?"  He  looked  hard 
at  Blanche — and  detected  a  momentary  hesitation  in  her  face. 
"  Tell  me  this,  my  young  leddy,"  he  went  on,  advancing  warily 
nearer  to  the  point.  "  When  ye're  speering  for  news  o'  your 
friend's  lost  letter — what  sets  ye  on  comin'  to  nief'' 

Those  words  were  decisive.  It  is  hardly  too  much  to  say 
that  Blanche's  future  depended  on  Blanche's  answer  to  that 
question. 

If  she  could  have  produced  the  money;  and  if  she  had  said, 
boldly,  "  You  have  got  the  letter,  Mr.  Bishopriggs :  I  pledge 
my  word  that  no  questions  shall  be  asked,  and  I  offer  you  ten 
pounds  for  it"  —  in  all  probability  the  bargain  would  have 
been  struck ;  and  the  whole  course  of  coming  events  would, 
in  that  case,  have  been  altered.  But  she  had  no  money  left ; 
and  there  Avere  no  friends,  in  the  circle  at  Swanhaven,  to  whom 
she  could  apply,  without  being  misinterpreted,  for  a  loan  of 
ten  pounds,  to  be  privately  intrusted  to  her  on  the  spot.  Un- 
der stress  of  sheer  necessity  Blanche  abandoned  all  hope  of 
making  any  present  appeal  of  a  pecuniary  nature  to  the  confi- 
dence of  Bishopriggs. 

The  one  other  way  of  attaining  her  object  that  she  could  see 
was  to  arm  herself  with  the  influence  of  Sir  Patrick's  name.  A 
man,  placed  in  her  position,  would  have  thought  it  mere  mad- 
ness to  venture  on  such  a  risk  as  this.  But  Blanche — with  one 
act  of  rashness  already  on  her  conscience — rushed,  woman-like, 
straight  to  the  commission  of  another.      The  same  headlong 


312  MAN    AND    WIFE. 

eagerness  to  reach  her  end,  which  had  hurried  her  into  ques- 
tioning Geoffrey  before  he  left  Windygates,  now  drove  her, 
just  as  recklessly,  into  taking  the  management  of  Bishopriggs 
out  of  Sir  Patrick's  skilled  and  practiced  hands.  The  starving 
sisterly  love  in  her  hungered  for  a  trace  of  Anne.  Her  heart 
whispered,  Risk  it !     And  Blanche  risked  it  on  the  spot. 

"  Sir  Patrick  set  me  on  coming  to  you,"  she  said. 

The  opening  hand  of  Mr.  Bishopriggs — ready  to  deliver  the 
letter,  and  receive  the  reward — closed  again  instantly  as  she 
spoke  those  words. 

"Sir  Paitrick?"  he  repeated.  " Ow  !  ow  !  ye've  een  tauld 
Sir  Paitrick  aboot  it,  have  ye?  There's  a  chiel  wi'  a  lang 
head  on  his  shouthers,  if  ever  there  was  ane  yet!  What  might 
Sir  Paiti-ick  ha'  said  ?" 

Blanche  noticed  a  change  in  his  tone.  Blanche  was  rigidly 
careful  (when  it  was  too  late)  to  answer  him  in  guarded  terras. 

"  Sir  Patrick  thought  you  might  have  found  the  letter,"  she 
said,  "  and  might  not  have  remembered  about  it  again  until 
after  you  had  left  the  inn." 

Bishopriggs  looked  back  into  his  own  personal  experience 
of  his  old  master — and  drew  the  correct  conclusion  that  Sir 
Patrick's  view  of  his  connection  with  the  disappearance  of 
the  letter  was  not  the  purely  unsuspicious  view  reported  by 
Blanche.  "  The  dour  auld  deevil,"  he  thought  to  himself, 
"knows  me  better  than  thatP'' 

"  Well?"  asked  Blanche,  impatiently  ;  "  is  Sir  Patrick  right?" 

"  Kicht  ?"  rejoined  Bishopriggs,  briskly.  "  Pie's  as  far  awa' 
from  the  truth  as  John  o'  Groat's  house  is  from  Jericho." 

"  You  know  nothing  of  the  letter  ?" 

"Deil  a  bit  I  know^o'  the  letter.  The  first  I  ha'  heard  o'  it 
is  what  I  hear  noo." 

Blanche's  heart  sank  within  her.  Had  she  defeated  her  own 
object,  and  cut  the  ground  from  under  Sir  Patrick's  feet,  for 
the  second  time?  Surely  not!  There  was  unquestionably  a 
chance,  on  this  occasion,  that  the  man  might  be  prevailed  upon 
to  place  the  trust  in  her  uncle  which  he  was  too  cautious  to 
confide  to  a  stranger  like  herself  The  one  wise  thing  to  do 
now  was  to  pave  the  way  for  the  exertion  of  Sir  Patrick's  su- 
perior influence,  and  Sir  Patrick's  superior  skill.  She  resumed 
the  conversation  with  that  object  in  view. 

"  I  am  sorry  to  hear  that  Sir  Patrick  has  guessed  wrong," 
she  resumed,  "  My  friend  was  anxious  to  recover  the  letter 
when  I  last  saw  her ;  and  I  hoped  to  hear  news  of  it  from 
you.  However,  right  or  wrong,  Sir  Patrick  has  some  reasons 
for  wishing  to  see  you — and  I  take  the  opportunity  of  telling 
you  so.  He  has  left  a  letter  to  wait  for  you  at  the  Craig 
Fernie  inn." 


MAN    AND    WIFE.  313 

"I'm  thinking  the  letter  Avill  ha'  lang  eneugh  to  wait,  if  it 
waits  till  I  gae  back  for  it  to  the  hottle,"  remarked  Bishopriggs. 

"In  that  case,"  said  Blanche,  promptly,  "you  had  better 
give  me  an  address  at  which  Sir  Patrick  can  write  to  you. 
You  wouldn't,  I  suppose,  wish  me  to  say  that  I  had  seen  you 
here,  and  that  you  refused  to  communicate  with  him?" 

"  Never  think  it !"  cried  Bishopriggs,  fervently.  "  If  there's 
ain  thing  raair  than  anither  that  I'm  carefu'  to  presairve  intact, 
it's  joost  the  respectful  attention  that  I  owe  to  Sir  Patrick. 
I'll  make  sae  bauld,  miss,  as  to  chairge  ye  wi'  that  bit  caird. 
I'm  no'  settled  in  ony  place  yet  (mair's  the  pity  at  my  time  o' 
life  !),but  Sir  Paitrick  may  hear  of  me,  when  Sir  Paitrick  has 
need  o'  me,  there."  He  handed  a  dirty  little  card  to  Blanche 
containing  the  name  and  address  of  a  butcher  in  Edinburgh. 
"  Sawmuel  Bishopriggs,"  he  went  on,  glibly.  "  Care  o'  Davie 
Dow,  flesher;  Cowgate  ;  Embro.  My  Patmos  in  the  weelder- 
ness.  miss,  for  the  time  being." 

Blanche  received  the  address  with  a  sense  of  unspeakable 
relief.  If  she  had  once  more  ventured  on  taking  Sir  Patrick's 
place,  and  once  more  failed  in  justifying  her  rashness  by  the 
results,  she  had  at  least  gained  some  atoning  advantage,  this 
time,  by  opening  a  means  of  communication  between  her  un- 
cle and  Bishopriggs.  "You  will  hear  from  Sir  Patrick,"  she 
said,  and  nodded  kindly,  and  returned  to  her  place  among  the 
guests. 

"  I'll  hear  from  Sir  Paitrick,  wull  I  ?"  repeated  Bishopriggs, 
when  he  was  left  by  himself.  "  Sir  Paitrick  will  wark  nae- 
thing  less  than  a  meeracle  if  he  finds  Sawmuel  Bishopriggs  at 
the  Cowgate,  Embro  !" 

He  laughed  softly  over  his  own  cleverness ;  and  withdrew 
to  a  lonely  place  in  the  plantation,  in  which  he  could  consult 
the  stolen  correspondence  without  fear  of  being  observed  by 
any  living  creature.  Once  more  the  truth  had  tried  to  strug- 
gle into  light,  before  the  day  of  the  marriage,  and  once  more 
Blanche  had  innocently  helped  the  darkness  to  keep  it  from 
view. 


CHAPTER  THE  TIHRTY-THIRD. 

SEEDS    OF    THE    FUTURE   (tHIED    SOWINg). 

After  a  new  and  attentive  reading  of  Anne's  letter  to 
Geoffrey,  and  of  Geoffrey's  letter  to  Anne,  Bishopriggs  laid 
down  comfortably  under  a  tree,  and  set  himself  the  task  of 
seeing  his  position  plainly  as  it  was  at  that  moment. 

The  profitable  disposal  of  the   correspondence  to  Blanche 


314  MAN    AND   WIFE. 

was  no  longer  among  the  possibilities  involved  in  the  case. 
As  for  treating  with  Sir  Patrick,  Bishopriggs  determined  to 
keep  equally  clear  of  the  Cowgate,  Edinburgh,  and  of  Mrs. 
Inchbare's  inn,  so  long  as  there  was  the  faintest  chance  of  his 
pushing  his  own  interests  in  any  other  quarter.  No  person 
living  would  be  capable  of  so  certainly  extracting  the  corre- 
spondence from  him,  on  such  ruinously  cheap  terms,  as  his  old 
master.  "  I'll  no'  put  myself  under  Sir  Paitrick's  thumb," 
thought  Bishopriggs,  "  till  Pve  gane  my  ain  rounds  among 
the  lave  o'  them  first." 

Rendered  into  intelligible  English,  this  resolution  pledged 
him  to  hold  no  communication  with  Sir  Patrick — until  he  had 
first  tested  his  success  in  negotiating  with  other  persons,  who 
might  be  equally  interested  in  getting  possession  of  the  cor- 
respondence, and  more  liberal  in  giving  hush-money  to  the 
thief  who  had  stolen  it. 

Who  were  the  "  other  persons  "  at  his  disposal,  under  these 
circumstances  ? 

He  had  only  to  recall  the  conversation  which  he  had  over- 
heard between  Lady  Lundie  and  Mrs,  Delamayn  to  arrive  at 
the  discovery  of  one  person,  to  begin  with,  who  was  directly 
interested  in  getting  possession  of  his  own  letter.  Mr,  Geof- 
frey Delamayn  was  in  a  fair  way  of  being  married  to  a  lady 
named  Mrs.  Glenarm.  And  here  was  this  same  Mr,  Geofirey 
Delamayn  in  matrimonial  correspondence,  little  more  than  a 
fortnight  since,  with  another  lady — who  signed  herself  "  Anne 
Silvester," 

Whatever  his  position  between  the  two  women  might  be, 
his  interest  in  possessing  himself  of  the  correspondence  was 
plain  beyond  all  doubt.  It  was  equally  clear  that  the  first 
thing  to  be  done  by  Bishopriggs  was  to  find  the  means  of  ob- 
taining a  personal  interview  with  him.  If  the  interview  led 
to  nothing  else,  it  would  decide  one  important  question  which 
still  remained  to  be  solved.  The  lady  whom  Bishopriggs  had 
waited  on  at  Craig  Fernie  might  well  be  "Anne  Silvester," 
Was  Mr.  Geoffrey  Delamayn,  in  that  case,  the  gentleman  who 
had  passed  as  her  husband  at  the  inn  ? 

Bishopriggs  rose  to  his  gouty  feet  with  all  possible  alacrity, 
and  hobbled  away  to  make  the  necessary  inquiries,  address- 
ing himself,  not  to  the  men-servants  at  the  dinner-table,  who 
would  be  sure  to  insist  on  his  joining  them,  but  to  the  wom- 
en-servants left  in  charge  of  the  empty  house. 

He  easily  obtained  the  necessary  directions  for  finding  the 
cottage.  But  he  was  warned  that  Mr.  Geoffi'ey  Delamayn's 
trainer  allowed  nobody  to  see  his  patron  at  exercise,  and  that 
he  would  certainly  be  ordered  off  again  the  moment  he  ap- 
peared on  the  scene. 


MAN    AND    WIFE.  317 

Bearing  this  caution  in  mind,  Bishopriggs  made  a  circuit,  on 
reaching  the  open  ground,  so  as  to  approach  the  cottage  at  the 
back,  under  shelter  of  the  trees  behind  it.  One  look  at  Mr. 
GeottVey  Delamayn  was  all  that  he  wanted  in  the  first  in- 
stance. They  were  welcome  to  order  him  off  again,  as  long  as 
he  obtained  that. 

He  was  still  hesitating  at  the  outer  line  of  the  trees,  when 
he  heard  a  loud,  imperative  voice,  calling  from  the  front  of  the 
cottage,  "  Now,  Mr.  Geoffrey  !  Time's  up  !"  Another  voice 
answered,  "All  right  !"  and,  after  an  interval,  Geoffrey  Dela- 
mayn appeared  on  the  open  ground,  proceeding  to  the  point 
from  which  he  was  accustomed  to  walk  his  measured  mile. 

Advancing  a  few  steps  to  look  at  his  man  more  closely, 
Bishopriggs  was  instantly  detected  by  the  quick  eye  of  the 
trainer.  "  Halloo  !"  cried  Perry,  "  what  do  you  want  here  ?" 
Bishopriggs  opened  his  lips  to  make  an  excuse.  "  Who  the 
devil  are  you  ?"  roared  Geoffrey.  The  trainer  answered  the 
question  out  of  the  resources  of  his  own  experience.  "A  spy, 
sir  —  sent  to  time  you  at  your  work."  Geoffrey  lifted  his 
mighty  fist,  and  sprang  forward  a  step.  Perry  held  his  pa- 
tron back.  "You  can't  do  that,  sir,"  he  said;  "■  the  man's  too 
old.  No  fear  of  his  turning  up  again — you've  scared  him  out 
of  his  wits."  The  statement  was  strictly  true.  The  terror  of 
Bishopriggs  at  the  sight  of  Geoffrey's  fist  restored  to  him  the 
activity  of  his  youth.  He  ran  for  the  first  time  for  tw^enty 
years  ;  and  only  stopped  to  remember  his  infirmities,  and  to 
catch  his  breath,  when  he  was  out  of  sight  of  the  cottage, 
among  the  trees. 

He  sat  down  to  rest  and  recover  himself,  with  the  com- 
forting inner  conviction  that,  in  one  respect  at  least,  he  had 
gained  his  point.  The  furious  savage,  with  the  eyes  that  dart- 
ed fire  and  the  fist  that  threatened  destruction,  Avas  a  total 
stranger  to  him.  In  other  words,  not  the  man  who  had  passed 
as  the  lady's  husband  at  the  inn. 

At  the  same  time  it  was  equally  certain  that  he  was  the 
man  involved  in  the  compromising  correspondence  which 
Bishopriggs  possessed.  To  appeal,  however,  to  his  interest  in 
obtaining  the  letter  was  entirely  incompatible  (after  the  re- 
cent exhibition  of  his  fist)  w'ith  the  strong  regard  which  Bish- 
opriggs felt  for  his  own  personal  security.  There  was  no  al- 
ternative now  but  to  open  negotiations  with  the  one  other  per- 
son concerned  in  the  matter  (fortunately,  on  this  occasion,  a 
person  of  the  gentler  sex),  who  was  actually  within  reach. 
Mrs.  Glenarm  was  at  Swanhaven.  She  had  a  direct  interest 
in  clearing  up  the  question  of  a  prior  claim  to  Mr.  Geoffrey 
Delamayn  on  the  part  of  another  woman.  And  she  could  only 
do  that  by  getting  the  correspondence  into  her  own  handa 


318  MAN    AND    WrPB. 

"  Praise  Providence  for  a'  its  mercies !"  said  Bishopriggs, 
getting  on  his  feet  again.  "  I've  got  twa  strings,  as  they  say, 
to  my  boo.  I  trow  the  woman's  the  canny  string  o'  the  twa 
— and  we'll  een  try  the  twanging  of  her." 

He  set  forth  on  his  road  hack  again,  to  search  among  the 
company  at  the  lake  for  Mrs.  Glenarm. 

The  dance  had  reached  its  climax  of  animation  when  Bishop- 
riggs re-appeared  on  the  scene  of  his  duties  ;  and  the  ranks  of 
the  company  had  been  recruited,  in  his  absence,  by  the  very 
person  whom  it  was  now  his  foremost  object  to  approach. 

Receiving,  with  supple  submission,  a  reprimand  for  his  pro- 
longed absence  from  the  chief  of  the  servants,  Bishopriggs — 
keeping  his  one  observant  eye  carefully  on  the  look-out — busied 
himself  in  promoting  the  circulation  of  ices  and  cool  drinks. 

While  he  was  thus  occupied,  his  attention  was  attracted  by 
two  persons  who,  in  very  different  ways,  stood  out  prominently 
as  marked  characters  among  the  rank  and  file  of  the  guests. 

The  first  person  was  a  vivacious,  irascible  old  gentleman,  who 
persisted  in  treating  the  undeniable  fact  of  his  age  on  the  foot- 
ing of  a  scandalous  false  report  set  afloat  by  time.  He  was 
superbly  strapped  and  padded.  His  hair,  his  teeth,  and  his 
complexion  were  triumphs  of  artificial  youth.  When  he  was 
not  occupied  among  the  youngest  women  present — which  was 
very  seldom — he  attached  himself  exclusively  to  the  youngest 
men.  He  insisted  on  joining  every  dance.  Twice  he  measured 
his  length  upon  the  grass  ;  but  nothing  daunted  him.  He  was 
waltzing  again,  with  another  young  woman,  at  the  next  dance, 
as  if  nothing  had  happened.  Inquiring  who  this  effervescent 
old  gentleman  might  be,  Bishopriggs  discovered  that  he  was 
a  retired  oflicer  in  the  navy  ;  commonly  known  (among  his  in- 
feriors) as  "The  Tartar;"  more  formally  described  in  society 
as  Captain  Newenden,  the  last  male  representative  of  one  of 
the  oldest  families  in  England. 

The  second  person,  who  appeared  to  occupy  a  position  of 
distinction  at  the  dance  in  the  glade,  was  a  lady. 

To  the  eye  of  Bishopriggs,  she  was  a  miracle  of  beauty,  with 
a  small  fortune  for  a  poor  man  carried  about  her  in  silk,  lace, 
and  jewelry.  No  woman  present  was  the  object  of  such  special 
attention  among  the  men  as  this  fixscinating  and  priceless  crea- 
ture. She  sat  fanning  herself  with  a  matchless  work  of  art 
(supposed  to  be  a  handkerchief)  representing  an  island  of 
cambric  in  the  midst  of  an  ocean  of  lace.  She  was  surrounded 
by  a  little  court  of  admirers,  who  fetched  and  carried  at  her 
slightest  nod,  like  well-trained  dogs.  Sometimes  they  brought 
refreshments,  which  she  had  asked  for,  only  to  decline  taking 
them  when  they  came.  Sometimes  they  brought  infoiination 
of  what  was  going  on  among  the  dancers,  which  the  lady  had 


MAN    AND    WIFE.  319 

been  eager  to  receive  when  they  went  away,  and  in  which  she 
had  ceased  to  feel  the  smallest  interest  when  they  canu-  l)ack. 
Every  body  burst  into  ejaculations  of  distress  when  she  was 
asked  to  account  for  her  absence  from  the  dinner,  and  answered, 
"  My  poor  nerves."  Every  body  said,  "  What  should  we  have 
done  without  you  !" — when  she  doubted  if  she  had  done  wise- 
ly in  joining  the  party  at  all.  Inquiring  who  this  favored  lady 
might  be,  Bishopriggs  discovered  that  she  was  the  niece  of  the 
indomitable  old  gentleman  who  would  dance — or,  more  plain- 
Ij'^  still,  no  less  a  person  than  his  couteni|)lated  customer,  Mrs. 
Glen  arm. 

With  all  his  enormous  assurance,  Bishopriggs  was  daunted 
when  he  found  himself  facing  the  question  of  what  he  was  to 
do  next. 

To  open  negotiations  with  Mrs.  Glenarm,  under  present  cir- 
cumstances, was,  for  a  man  in  his  position,  simply  impossible. 
But,  apart  from  this,  the  prospect  of  profitably  addressing  him- 
self to  that  lady  in  the  future  was,  to  say  the  least  of  it,  beset 
with  difficulties  of  no  common  kind. 

Supposing  the  means  of  disclosing  Geoifrey's  position  to  her 
to  be  found — what  would  she  do  when  she  received  her  warn- 
ing ?  She  would  in  all  probability  apply  to  one  of  two  formi- 
dable men,  both  of  whom  were  interested  in  the  matter.  If  she 
went  straight  to  the  man  accused  of  attempting  to  marry  her, 
at  a  time  when  he  was  already  engaged  to  another  woman — 
Bishopriggs  would  find  himself  confronted  with  the  owner  of 
that  terrible  fist,  which  had  justly  terrified  him  even  on  a  dis- 
tant and  cursory  view.  If,  on  the  other  hand,  she  placed  her 
interests  in  the  care  of  her  uncle — Bishopriggs  had  only  to  look 
at  the  captain,  and  to  calculate  his  chance  of  imposing  terms  on 
a  man  wiio  owed  Life  a  bill  of  more  than  sixty  years'  date,  and 
who  openly  defied  Time  to  recover  the  debt. 

With  these  serious  obstacles  standing  in  the  way,  what  was 
to  be  done?  The  only  alternative  left  was  to  approach  Mrs. 
Glenarm  under  shelter  of  the  dark. 

Reaching  this  conclusion,  Bishopriggs  decided  to  ascertain 
from  the  servants  what  the  lady's  future  movements  might  be; 
and,  thus  informed,  to  startle  her  by  anonymous  warnings,  con- 
veyed through  the  post,  and  claiming  their  answer  through  the 
advertising  channel  of  a  newspaper.  Here  was  the  certainty 
of  alarming  her,  coupled  with  the  certainty  of  safety  to  him- 
self! Little  did  Mrs.  Glenarm  dream,  when  she  capriciously 
stopped  a  servant  going  by  with  some  glasses  of  lemonade,  that 
the  wretched  old  creature  who  offered  the  tray  contemplated 
corresponding  with  her  before  the  week  was  out,  in  the  double 
character  of  her  "Well-Wisher"  and  her  "True  Friend." 

The  evening  advanced.     The  shadows  lengthened.     The  wa- 


320  MAN    AND    WIFK. 

ters  of  the  lake  grew  pitchy  black.  The  gliding  of  the  ghostly- 
swans  became  rare  and  more  rare.  The  elders  of  the  party 
thought  of  the  drive  home.  The  juniors  (excepting  Captain 
Newenden)  began  to  flag  at  the  dance.  Little  by  little  the 
comfortable  attractions  of  the  house — tea,  coffee,  and  candle- 
light in  snug  rooms — resumed  their  influence.  The  guests  aban- 
doned the  glade  ;  and  the  fingers  and  lungs  of  the  musicians 
rested  at  last. 

Lady  Lundie  and  her  party  were  the  first  to  send  for  the  car- 
riage and  say  farewell ;  the  break-up  of  the  household  at  Win- 
dygates  on  the  next  day,  and  the  journey  south,  being  suffi- 
cient apologies  for  setting  the  example  of  retreat.  In  an  hour 
more  the  only  visitors  left  were  the  guests  staying  at  Swanha- 
ven  Lodge. 

The  company  gone,  the  hired  waiters  from  Kirkandrew  were 
paid  and  dismissed. 

On  the  journey  back  the  silence  of  Bishopriggs  created  some 
surprise  among  his  comrades.  "  I've  got  my  ain  concerns  to 
think  of,"  was  the  only  answer  he  vouchsafed  to  the  remon- 
strances addressed  to  him.  "  The  concerns  "  alluded  to  com- 
prehended, among  other  changes  of  plan,  his  departure  from 
Kirkandrew  the  next  day — with  a  reference,  in  case  of  inquiries, 
to  his  convenient  friend  at  the  Cowgate,  Edinburgh.  His  act- 
ual destination — to  be  kept  a  secret  from  every  body — was 
Perth.  The  neighborhood  of  this  town — as  stated  on  the  au- 
thority of  her  own  maid — was  the  part  of  Scotland  to  which 
the  rich  widow  contemplated  removing  when  she  left  Swan- 
haven  in  two  days'  time.  At  Perth,  Bishopriggs  knew  of  more 
than  one  place  in  which  he  could  get  temporary  employment 
— and  at  Perth  he  determined  to  make  his  first  anonymous  ad- 
vances to  Mrs.  Glenarm. 

The  remainder  of  the  evening  passed  quietly  enough  at  the 
Lodge. 

The  guests  were  sleepy  and  dull  after  the  excitement  of  the 
day.  Mrs.  Glenarm  retired  early.  At  eleven  o'clock  Julius 
Delamayn  was  the  only  person  left  up  in  the  house.  He  was 
understood  to  be  in  his  study,  preparing  an  address  to  the  elect- 
ors, based  on  instructions  sent  from  London  by  his  father.  He 
was  actually  occupied  in  the  music-room — now  that  there  was 
nobody  to  discover  him  —  playing  exercises  softly  on  his  be- 
loved violin. 

At  the  trainer's  cottage  a  trifling  incident  occurred, that  night, 
which  aff'orded  materials  for  a  note  in  Perry's  professional  diary. 

Geoffi-ey  had  sustained  the  later  trial  of  walking  for  a  given 
time  and  distance,  at  his  full  speed,  without  showing  any  of 
those  symptoms  of  exhaustion  which  had  followed  the  more 
serious  expei-iment  of  running,  to  which  he  had  been  subjected 


MAN    AND    WIFE.  321 

earlier  in  the  day.  Perry,  honestly  bent — though  he  had  pri- 
vately hedged  his  owu  bets — on  doing  bis  best  to  bring  his  man 
in  good  order  to  the  post  on  the  day  of  the  race,  had  forbidden 
Geoffrey  to  pay  his  evening  visit  to  the  house,  and  had  sent  him 
to  bed  earlier  than  usual.  The  trainer  was  alone,  looking  over 
his  own  written  rules,  and  considering  what  modifications  he 
should  introduce  into  the  diet  and  exercises  of  the  next  day, 
when  he  was  startled  by  a  sound  of  groaning  from  the  bedroom 
in  which  his  patron  lay  asleep. 

He  went  in,  and  found  Geoffrey  rolling  to  and  fro  on  the  pil- 
low, with  his  face  contorted,  with  his  hands  clenched,  and  with 
the  perspiration  standing  thick  on  his  forehead — suffering  evi- 
dently under  the  nei'vous  oppression  produced  by  the  phantom- 
terrors' of  a  dream. 

Perry  spoke  to  him,  and  pulled  him  up  in  the  bed.  He  woke 
with  a  scream.  He  stared  at  his  trainer  in  vacant  terror,  and 
spoke  to  his  trainer  in  wild  words.  "What  are  your  horrid 
eyes  looking  at  over  my  shoulder?"  he  cried  out.  "  Go  to  the 
devil — and  take  your  infernal  slate  with  you  !"  Perry  spoke 
to  him  once  more.  "You've  been  dreaming  of  somebody,  Mr. 
Delaraayn.  What's  to  do  about  a  slate  ?"  Geoffrey  looked 
eagerly  round  the  room,  and  heaved  a  heavy  breath  of  relief 
"1  could  have  sworn  she  was  staring  at  me  over  the  dwarf 
pear-trees,"  he  said.  "All  right,  I  know  where  I  am  now." 
Perry  (attributing  the  dream  to  nothing  more  important  than 
a  passing  indigestion)  administered  some  brandy-and-water, 
and  left  him  to  drop  off  again  to  sleep.  He  fretfully  forbade 
the  extinguishing  of  the  light.  "  Afraid  of  the  dark?"  said  Per- 
ry, with  a  laugh.  No.  He  was  afraid  of  dreaming  again  of  the 
dumb  cook  at  Windygates  House. 


SEVENTH  SCENE.— HAM  FARM. 
CHAPTER  THE  THIRTY-FOURTH. 

THE    NIGHT    BEFORE. 

The  time  was  the  night  before  the  marriage.  The  place 
was  Sir  Patrick's  house  in  Kent. 

The  lawyers  had  kept  their  word.  The  settlements  had 
been  forwarded,  and  had  been  signed  two  days  since. 

With  the  exception  of  the  surgeon  and  one  of  the  three 
young  gentlemen  from  the  University,  who  had  engagements 
elsewhere,  the  visitors  at  Windygates  had  emigrated  south- 
ward to  be  present  at  the  marriage.     Besides  these  gentlemen, 


322  MAN   AND   WIFE. 

there  were  some  ladies  among  the  guests  invited  by  Sir  Pat- 
rick— all  of  them  family  connections,  and  three  of  them  ap- 
pointed to  the  position  of  Blanche's  brides-maids.  Add  one 
or  two  neighbors  to  be  invited  to  the  breakfast,  and  the  wed- 
ding-party would  be  complete. 

There  was  nothing  architecturally  remarkable  about  Sir 
Patiick's  house.  Ham  Farm  possessed  neithei'  the  splendor 
of  Windygates  nor  the  picturesque  antiquarian  attraction  of 
Swanhaven.  It  was  a  perfectly  commonplace  English  country 
seat,  surrounded  by  perfectly  commonplace  English  scenery. 
Snug  monotony  welcomed  you  when  you  went  in,  and  snug 
monotony  met  you  again  when  you  turned  to  the  window  and 
looked  out. 

The  animation  and  variety  wanting  at  I  lam  Farm  were  far 
from  being  supplied  by  the  company  in  the  house.  It  was  re- 
membered, at  an  after-period,  that  a  duller  wedding-party  had 
never  been  assembled  together. 

Sir  Patrick,  having  no  early  associations  with  the  place,  open- 
ly admitted  that  his  residence  in  Kent  preyed  on  his  spirits, 
and  that  he  would  have  infinitely  preferred  a  room  at  the  inn 
in  the  village.  The  effort  to  sustain  his  customary  vivacity 
was  not  encouraged  by  persons  and  circumstances  about  him. 
Lady  Lundie's  fidelity  to  the  memory  of  the  late  Sir  Thomas 
on  the  scene  of  his  last  illness  and  death  persisted  in  asserting 
itself,  under  an  ostentation  of  concealment  which  tried  even 
the  trained  temper  of  Sir  Patrick  himself.  Blanche,  still  de- 
pressed by  her  private  anxieties  about  Anne,  was  in  no  con- 
dition of  mind  to  look  gayly  at  the  last  memorable  days  of  her 
maiden  life.  Arnold,  sacx'ificed — by  express  stipulation  on  the 
part  of  Lady  Lundie — to  the  prurient  delicacy  which  forbids 
the  bridegroom,  before  marriage,  to  sleep  in  the  same  house 
with  the  bride,  found  himself  ruthlessly  shut  out  from  Sir  Pat- 
rick's hospitality,  and  exiled  every  night  to  a  bedroom  at 
the  inn.  He  accepted  his  solitary  doom  with  a  resignation 
which  extended  its  sobering  influence  to  his  customary  flow  of 
spirits.  As  for  the  ladies,  the  elder  among  them  existed  in  a 
state  of  chronic  protest  against  Lady  Lundie,  and  the  younger 
were  absorbed  in  the  essentially  serious  occupation  of  consid- 
ering and  comparing  their  wedding-dresses.  The  two  young 
gentlemen  from  the  University  performed  prodigies  of  yawn- 
ing in  the  intervals  of  prodigies  of  billiard -playing.  Smith  said, 
in  despair,  "  There's  no  making  things  pleasant  in  this  house, 
Jones."     And  Jones  sighed,  and  mildly  agreed  with  him. 

On  the  Sunday  evening — which  was  the  evening  before  the 
marriage — the  dullness,  as  a  matter  of  course,  reached  its  cli- 
max. 

But  two  of  the  occupations  in  which  people  may  indulge  on 


MAN    AND   WIFE.  323 

week  days  are  regarded  as  harmless  on  Sunday  by  the  obsti- 
nately anti-Christian  tone  of  feeling  which  prevails  in  this  mat- 
ter among  the  Anglo-Saxon  race.  It  is  not  sinful  to  wrangle 
in  religious  controversy  ;  and  it  is  not  sinful  to  slumber  over 
a  religious  book.  The  ladies  at  Ham  Farm  practiced  the  pious 
observance  of  the  evening  on  this  plan.  The  seniors  of  the 
sex  wrangled  in  Sunday  controversy;  and  the  juniors  of  the 
sex  slumbered  over  Sunday  books.  As  for  the  men,  it  is  un- 
necessary to  say  that  the  young  ones  smoked  when  they  were 
not  yawning,  and  yawned  when  they  were  not  smoking.  Sir 
Patrick  staid  in  the  library,  sorting  old  letters  and  examining 
old  accounts.  Every  person  in  the  house  felt  the  oppression 
of  the  senseless  social  prohibitions  which  they  had  imposed  on 
themselves.  And  yet  every  person  in  the  house  would  have 
been  scandalized  if  the  plain  question  had  been  put :  You 
know  this  is  a  tyranny  of  your  own  making,  you  know  you 
don't  really  believe  in  it,  you  know  you  don't  really  like  it — 
why  do  you  submit  ?  The  freest  people  on  the  civilized  earth 
are  the  only  people  on  the  civilized  earth  who  dare  not  face 
that  question. 

The  evening  dragged  its  slow  length  on  ;  the  welcome  time 
drew  nearer  and  nearer  for  oblivion  in  bed.  Arnold  was  silent- 
ly contemplating,  for  the  last  time,  his  customary  prospects  of 
banishment  to  the  inn,  when  he  became  aware  that  Sir  Patrick 
was  making  signs  to  him.  He  i-ose,  and  followed  his  host  into 
the  empty  dining-room.  Sir  Patrick  carefully  closed  the  door. 
What  did  it  mean  ? 

It  meant — so  far  as  Arnold  was  concerned  —  that  a  private 
conversation  was  about  to  diversify  the  monotony  of  the  long 
Sunday  evening  at  Ham  Fai'm. 

"  I  have  a  word  to  say  to  you,  Arnold,"  the  old  gentleman 
began,  "  before  you  become  a  married  man.  Do  you  remem- 
ber the  conversation  at  dinner  yesterday  about  the  dancing- 
party  at  Swanhaven  Lodge  ?" 

"  Yes." 

"Do  you  remember  what  Lady  Lundie  said  while  the  topic 
was  on  the  table?" 

"  She  told  me,  what  I  can't  believe,  that  Geoffrey  Delamayn 
was  going  to  be  married  to  Mrs.  Glenarm." 

"  Exactly  !  I  observed  that  you  appeared  to  be  startled  by 
what  my  sister-in-law  had  said  ;  and  when  you  declared  that 
appearances  must  certainly  have  misled  her,  you  looked  and 
spoke  (to  my  mind)  like  a  man  animated  by  a  strong  feeling 
of  indignation.     Was  I  wrong  in  drawing  that  conclusion  ?" 

"  No,  Sir  Patrick.     You  were  right." 

"Have  you  any  objection  to  tell  me  why  you  felt  indig- 
nant ?" 


324  MAN    AND    WIFE. 

Arnold  hesitated. 

"  You  are  probably  at  a  loss  to  know  what  interest  I  can 
feel  in  the  matter  ?" 

Arnold  admitted  it  with  his  customary  frankness. 

"  In  that  case,"  rejoined  Sir  Patrick,  "  I  had  better  go  on  at 
once  with  the  matter  in  liaud — leaving  you  to  see  for  yourself 
the  connection  between  what  I  am  about  to  say  and  the  ques- 
tion tliat  I  have  just  put.  When  I  have  done,  you  shall  then 
reply  to  me  or  not,  exactly  as  you  think  right.  My  dear 
boy,  the  subject  on  which  I  want  to  speak  to  you  is — Miss  Sil- 
vester." 

Arnold  started.  Sir  Patrick  looked  at  him  with  a  moment's 
attention,  and  went  on  : 

"  My  niece  has  her  faults  of  temper  and  her  failings  of  judg- 
ment," he  said.  "  But  she  has  one  atoning  quality  (among 
many  others)  which  ought  to  make — and  which  I  believe  will 
make  —  the  happiness  of  your  married  life.  In  the  popular 
phrase,  Blanche  is  as  true  as  steel.  Once  her  friend,  always 
her  friend.  Do  you  see  what  I  am  coming  to  ?  She  has  said 
nothing  about  it,  Arnold  ;  but  she  has  not  yielded  one  inch  in 
her  resolution  to  reunite  herself  to  Miss  Silvester.  One  of  the 
tirst  questions  you  will  have  to  determine,  after  to-morrow, 
will  be  the  question  of  whether  you  do,  or  not,  sanction  your 
wife  in  attempting  to  communicate  with  her  lost  friend." 

Arnold  answered  without  the  slightest  reserve. 

"  I  am  heartily  sorry  for  Blanche's  lost  friend,  Sir  Patrick. 
My  wife  will  have  my  full  approval  if  she  tries  to  bring  Miss 
Silvester  back — and  my  best  help  too,  if  I  can  give  it." 

Those  Avords  were  earnestly  spoken.  It  was  plain  that  they 
came  from  his  heart. 

"  I  think  you  are  wrong,"  said  Sir  Patrick.  "  I,  too,  am 
soiTy  for  Miss  Silvester.  But  I  am  convinced  that  she  has  not 
left  Blanche  without  a  serious  reason  for  it.  And  I  believe 
you  will  be  encouraging  your  wife  in  a  hopeless  effort,  if  you 
encourage  her  to  persist  in  the  search  for  her  lost  friend.  How- 
ever, it  is  your  affair,  and  not  mine.  Do  you  wish  me  to  offer 
you  any  facilities  for  tracing  Miss  Silvester  which  I  may  hap- 
pen to  possess  ?" 

"  If  you  can  help  us  over  any  obstacles  at  starting.  Sir  Pat- 
rick, it  will  be  a  kindness  to  Blanche,  and  a  kindness  to  me." 

"  Very  good.  I  suppose  you  remember  what  I  said  to  you, 
one  morning,  when  we  were  talking  of  Miss  Silvester  at  Windy- 
gates  ?" 

"You  said  you  had  determined  to  let  her  go  her  own  way." 

"Quite  right !  On  the  evening  of  the  day  when  I  said  that 
I  received  information  that  Miss  Silvester  had  been  traced  to 
Glasgow.     You  won't  require  me  to  explain  why  I  never  men- 


MAN    AND    WIFE.  .  325 

tioned  this  to  you  or  to  Blanche,  In  mentioning  it  now,  I  com- 
municate to  you  the  only  positive  information,  on  the  subject 
of  the  missing  woman,  which  I  possess.  There  are  two  other 
chances  of  finding  her  (of  a  more  speculative  kind)  which  can 
only  be  tested  by  inducing  two  men  (both  equally  difficult  to 
deal  with)  to  confess;  what  they  know.  One  of  those  two  men 
is — a  person  named  Bishopriggs,  formerly  waiter  at  the  Craig 
Fernie  inn." 

Arnold  started,  and  changed  color.  Sir  Patrick  (silently 
noticing  him)  stated  the  circumstances  I'elating  to  Anne's  lost 
lettei',  and  to  the  conclusion  in  his  own  mind  which  pointed  to 
Bishopriggs  as  the  person  in  possession  of  it. 

"I  have  to  add,"  he  proceeded,  "that  Blanche,  unfortunate- 
ly, found  an  opportunity  of  speaking  to  Bishopriggs  at  Swan- 
haven.  When  she  and  Lady  Lundie  joined  us  at  Edinburgh 
she  showed  me  privately  a  card  which  had  been  given  to  her 
by  Bishopriggs.  He  had  described  it  as  the  address  at  which 
he  might  be  heard  of — and  Blanche  entreated  me,  before  we 
started  for  London,  to  put  the  reference  to  the  test.  I  told 
her  that  she  had  committed  a  serious  mistake  in  attempting 
to  deal  with  Bishopriggs  on  her  own  responsibility ;  and  I 
warned  her  of  the  result  in  Avhich  I  was  firmly  persuaded  the 
inquiry  would  end.  She  declined  to  believe  that  Bishopriggs 
had  deceived  her.  I  saw  that  she  would  take  the  matter  into 
her  own  hands  again  unless  I  interfered,  and  I  went  to  the 
place.  Exactly  as  I  had  anticipated,  the  person  to  whom  the 
card  referred  me  had  not  heard  of  Bishopriggs  for  years,  and 
knew  nothing  whatever  about  his  present  movements.  Blanche 
had  simply  put  him  on  his  guard,  and  shown  him  the  propriety 
of  keeping  out  of  the  way.  If  you  should  ever  meet  with  him 
in  the  future  —  say  nothing  to  your  wife,  and  communicate 
with  me.  I  decline  to  assist  you  in  searching  for  Miss  Silves- 
ter ;  but  I  have  no  objection  to  assist  in  recovering  a  stolen 
letter  from  a  thief.  So  much  for  Bishopriggs. — Now  as  to  the 
other  man." 

"  Who  is  he  ?" 

"  Your  friend,  Mr.  Geoffrey  Delamayn." 

Arnold  sprang  to  his  feet  in  ungovernable  surprise. 

"  I  appear  to  astonish  you,"  remarked  Sir  Patrick. 

Arnold  sat  down  again,  and  waited,  in  speechless  suspense, 
to  hear  what  was  coming  next. 

"  I  have  reason  to  know,"  said  Sir  Patrick,  "  that  Mr.  Dela- 
mayn is  thoroughly  M'ell  acquainted  with  the  nature  of  Miss 
Silvester's  present  troubles.  What  his  actual  connection  is 
with  them,  and  how  he  came  into  possession  of  his  information, 
I  have  not  found  out.  My  discovery  begins  and  ends  with  the 
simple  fact  that  he  has  the  information." 


326  ♦  MAN    AND    WIFE. 

"  May  I  ask  one  question,  Sir  Patrick  ?" 

"  What  is  it  ?" 

"  How  did  you  find  out  about  Geoffrey  Delamayn?" 

"It  would  occupy  a  long  time,"  answered  Sir  Patrick,  "to 
tell  you  how — and  it  is  not  at  all  necessary  to  our  purpose 
that  you  should  know.  My  present  obligation  merely  binds 
me  to  tell  you — in  strict  confidence,  mind  ! — that  Miss  Silves- 
ter's secrets  are  no  secrets  to  Mr.  Delamayn.  I  leave  to  your 
discretion  the  use  you  may  make  of  that  information.  You 
are  now  entirely  on  a  par  with  me  in  relation  to  your  knowl- 
edge of  the  case  of  Miss  Silvester.  Let  us  return  to  the  ques- 
tion which  I  asked  you  when  we  first  came  into  the  room.  Do 
you  see  the  connection,  now,  between  that  question  and  what 
I  have  said  since  ?" 

Arnold  was  slow  to  see  the  connection.  His  mind  was  run- 
ning on  Sir  Patrick's  discovery.  Little  dreaming  that  he  was 
indebted  to  Mrs.  Inchbare's  incomplete  description  of  him  for 
his  own  escape  from  detection,  he  was  wondering  how  it  had 
happened  that  he  had  remained  unsuspected,  while  Geoffrey's 
position  had  been  (in  part  at  least)  revealed  to  view, 

"  I  asked  you,"  resumed  Sir  Patrick,  attempting  to  help  him, 
"  why  the  mere  report  that  your  friend  was  likely  to  marry 
Mrs.  Glenarm  roused  your  indignation,  and  you  hesitated  at 
giving  an  answer.     Do  you  hesitate  still?" 

"  It's  not  easy  to  give  an  answer.  Sir  Patrick." 

"  Let  us  put  it  in  another  way.  I  assume  that  your  view  of 
the  report  takes  its  rise  in  some  knowledge,  on  your  part,  of 
Mr.  Delamayn's  private  affairs,  which  the  rest  of  us  don't  pos- 
sess.— Is  that  conclusion  correct  ?" 

"  Quite  correct." 

"Is  what  you  know  about  Mr.  Delamayn  connected  with 
any  thing  that  you  know  about  Miss  Silvester?" 

If  Arnold  had  felt  himself  at  liberty  to  answer  that  ques- 
tion. Sir  Patrick's  suspicions  would  have  been  aroused,  and  Sir 
Patrick's  resolution  would  have  forced  a  full  disclosure  from 
him  before  he  left  the  house. 

It  was  getting  on  to  midnight.  The  first  hour  of  the  wed- 
ding-day was  at  hand,  as  the  truth  made  its  final  effort  to 
struggle  into  light.  The  dark  Phantoms  of  Trouble  and  Ter- 
ror to  come  were  waiting  near  them  both  at  that  moment. 
Arnold  hesitated  again — hesitated  painfully.  Sir  Patrick 
paused  for  his  answer.  The  clock  in  the  hall  struck  the  quar- 
ter to  twelve. 

"  I  can't  tell  you  !"  said  Arnold. 

"  Is  it  a  secret  ?" 

"  Yes." 

"  Committed  to  your  honor?" 


MAN    AND    WIFE.  327 

"  Doubly  committed  to  my  honor." 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?" 

"  I  mean  that  Geoflrey  and  I  have  quarreled  since  he  lOok 
me  into  his  confidence.  I  am  doubly  bound  to  respect  his  con- 
fidence after  that." 

"  Is  the  cause  of  your  quarrel  a  secret  also  ?" 

"Yes." 

Sir  Patrick  looked  Arnold  steadily  in  the  face. 

"  I  have  felt  an  inveterate  distrust  of  Mr.  Delamayn  from 
the  first,"  he  said.  "Answer  me  this.  Have  you  any  reason 
to  think — since  we  first  talked  about  your  friend  in  the  sum- 
mer-house at  Windygates — that  my  opinion  of  him  might  have 
been  the  right  one  after  all  ?" 

"  He  has  bitterly  disappointed  me,"  answered.  Arnold.  "  I 
can  say  no  more." 

"  You  have  had  very  little  experience  of  the  world,"  pro- 
ceeded Sir  Patrick.  "And  you  have  just  acknowledged  that 
you  have  had  reason  to  distrust  your  experience  of  your  friend. 
Are  you  quite  sure  that  you  are  acting  wisely  in  keeping  his 
secret  from  me  ?  Are  yon  quite  sure  that  you  will  not  repent 
the  course  you  are  taking  to-night  ?"  He  laid  a  marked  em- 
phasis on  those  last  words.  "  Think,  Arnold,"  he  added,  kind- 
ly— "  think  before  you  answer." 

"I  feel  bound  in  honor  to  keep  his  secret,"  said  Arnold. 
"  No  thinking  can  alter  that." 

Sir  Patrick  rose,  and  brought  the  interview  to  an  end. 

"  There  is  nothing  more  to  be  said."  With  those  words  he 
gave  Arnold  his  hand,  and,  pressing  it  cordially,  wished  him 
good-night. 

Going  out  into  the  hall,  Arnold  found  Blanche  alone,  look- 
ing at  the  barometer. 

"  The  glass  is  at  Set  Fair,  my  darling,"  he  whispered.  "  Good- 
night for  the  last  time  !" 

He  took  her  in  his  arras,  and  kissed  her.  At  the  moment 
when  he  released  her  Blanche  slipped  a  little  note  into  his 
hand. 

"  Read  it,"  she  whispered,  "  when  you  are  alone  at  the  inn.' 

So  they  parted  on  the  eve  of  their  wedding-day. 


328  MAN    AND    WIFE. 


CHAPTER  THE  THIRTY-FIFTH. 

THE    DAY, 

The  promise  of  the  weather-glass  was  fulfilled.  The  sun 
shone  on  Blanche's  marriage. 

At  nine  in  the  morning  the  first  of  the  proceedings  of  the 
day  began.  It  was  essentially  of  a  clandestine  nature.  The 
bride  and  bridegroom  evaded  the  restraints  of  lawful  author- 
ity, and  presumed  to  meet  together  privately,  before  they  were 
married,  in  the  conservatory  at  Ham  Farm. 

"You  have  read  ray  letter,  Arnold?" 

"I  have  come  here  to  answer  it,  Blanche.  But  why  not 
have  told  me  ?     Why  write?" 

"  Because  I  put  off  telling  you  so  long,  and  because  I  didn't 
know  how  you  might  take  it;  and  for  fifty  other  reasons. 
Never  mind  !  I've  made  my  confession.  I  haven't  a  single 
secret  now  which  is  not  your  secret  too.  There's  time  to  say 
No,  Arnold,  if  you  think  I  ought  to  have  no  room  in  my  heart 
for  any  body  but  you.  My  uncle  tells  me  I  am  obstinate  and 
wrong  in  refusing  to  give  Anne  up.  If  you  agree  with  him, 
say  the  word,  dear,  before  you  make  me  your  wife." 

"  Shall  I  tell  vou  what  I  said  to  Sir  Patrick  last  night  ?" 

"About  thisr 

"  Yes.  The  confession  (as  yoix  call  it)  which  you  make  in 
your  pretty  note,  is  the  very  thing  that  Sir  Patrick  spoke  to 
me  about  in  the  dining-room  before  I  went  away.  He  told  me 
your  heart  was  set  on  finding  Miss  Silvester.  And  he  asked 
me  what  I  meant  to  do  about  it  when  we  were  married." 

"And  you  said —  ?" 

Arnold  repeated  his  answer  to  Sir  Patrick,  with  fervid  em- 
bellishments of  the  original  language,  suitable  to  the  emergen- 
cy. Blanche's  delight  expressed  itself  in  the  form  of  two  un- 
blushing outrages  on  propriety,  committed  in  close  succession. 
She  threw  her  arms  round  Arnold's  neck ;  and  she  actually 
kissed  him,  three  hours  before  tlie  consent  of  State  and  Church 
sanctioned  her  in  taking  that  proceeding.  Let  us  shudder — 
but  let  us  not  blame  her.  These  are  the  consequences  of  free 
institutions. 

"  Now,"  said  Arnold,  "  it's  my  turn  to  take  to  pen  and  ink. 
I  have  a  letter  to  write  before  we  are  married  as  well  as  you. 
Only  there's  this  diflTerence  between  us — I  want  you  to  help 
me." 


MAN    AND    WIPE.  329 

"  Who  are  you  going  to  write  to  ?" 

"To  my  lawyer  in  Edinburgh.  There  will  be  no  time  unless 
I  do  it  now.  We  start  for  Switzerland  this  afternoon — don't 
we?" 

"Yes." 

"  Very  well.  I  want  to  relieve  your  mind,  my  darling,  be- 
fore we  go.  Wouldn't  you  like  to  know — while  we  are  away 
— that  the  right  people  are  on  the  look-out  for  Miss  Silvester  ? 
Sir  Patrick  has  told  me  of  the  last  place  that  she  has  been 
traced  to,  and  my  lawyer  will  set  the  right  people  at  work. 
Come  and  help  me  to  put  it  in  the  proper  language,  and  the 
whole  thing  will  be  in  train." 

"  Oh,  Arnold  !  can  I  ever  love  you  enough  to  reward  you  for 
this !" 

"  We  shall  see,  Blanche — in  Switzerland." 

They  audaciously  penetrated,  arm  in  arm,  into  Sir  Patrick's 
own  study — entirely  at  their  disposal,  as  they  well  knew,  at 
that  hour  of  the  morning.  With  Sir  Patrick's  pens  and  Sir 
Patrick's  paper  they  produced  a  letter  of  instructions,  deliber- 
ately re-opening  the  investigation  which  Sir  Patrick's  superior 
wisdom  had  closed.  Neither  pains  nor  money  were  to  be 
spared  by  the  lawyer  in  at  once  taking  measures  (beginning 
at  Glasgow)  to  find  Anne.  The  report  of  the  result  was  to 
be  addressed  to  Arnold,  under  cover  to  Sir  Patrick  at  Ham 
Farm.  By  the  time  the  letter  was  completed  the  morning  had 
advanced  to  ten  o'clock.  Blanche  left  Arnold  to  array  herself 
in  her  bridal  splendor — after  another  outrage  on  propriety,  and 
more  consequences  of  free  institutions. 

The  next  proceedings  were  of  a  public  and  avowable  na- 
ture, and  strictly  followed  the  customary  precedents  on  such 
occasions. 

Village  nymphs  strewed  flowers  on  the  path  to  the  church 
door  (and  sent  in  the  bill  the  same  day).  Village  swains  rang 
the  joy-bells  (and  got  drunk  on  their  money  the  same  evening). 
There  was  the  proper  and  awful  pause  while  the  bridegroom 
was  kept  waiting  at  the  church.  There  was  the  proper  and 
pitiless  staring  of  all  the  female  spectators  when  the  bride  was 
led  to  the  altar.  There  was  the  clergyman's  preliminary  look 
at  the  license — which  meant  ofiicial  caution.  And  there  was 
the  clerk's  preliminary  look  at  the  bridegroom — which  meant 
official  fees.  All  the  women  appeared  to  be  in  their  natural 
element;  and  all  the  men  appeared  to  be  out  of  it. 

Then  the  service  began — rightly  considered,  the  most  terri- 
ble, surely,  of  all  mortal  ceremonies — the  service  which  binds 
two  human  beings,  who  know  next  to  nothing  of  each  other's 
natures,  to  risk  the  tremendous  experiment  of  living  together 
till  death  parts  them — the  service  which  says,  in  effect  if  not 


330  MAN   AND   WIFE. 

in  words,  Take  your  leap  in  the  dark :  we  sanctify,  but  we 
don't  insure,  it ! 

The  ceremony  went  on,  without  the  slightest  obstacle  to 
mar  its  effect.  There  were  no  unforeseen  interruptions.  There 
were  no  ominous  mistakes. 

The  last  words  were  spoken,  and  the  book  was  closed. 
They  signed  their  names  on  the  register ;  the  husband  was 
congratulated ;  the  wife  was  embraced.  They  went  back 
again  to  the  house,  with  more  flowers  strewn  at  their  feet. 
The  wedding-breakfast  was  hurried ;  the  wedding-speeches 
were  curtailed :  there  was  no  time  to  be  wasted,  if  the  young 
couple  were  to  catch  the  tidal  train. 

In  an  hour  more  the  carnage  had  whirled  them  away  to  the 
station,  and  the  guests  had  given  them  the  farewell  cheer  from 
the  steps  of  the  house.  Young,  happy,  fondly  attached  to  each 
other,  raised  securely  above  all  the  sordid  cares  of  life,  what  a 
golden  future  was  theirs !  Married  with  the  sanction  of  the 
Family  and  the  blessing  of  the  Church — who  could  suppose 
that  the  time  was  coming,  nevertheless,  when  the  blighting 
question  would  fall  on  them,  in  the  spring-time  of  their  love : 
Are  you  Man  and  Wife  ? 


CHAPTER  THE  THIRTY-SIXTH. 

THE    TRUTH    AT    LAST. 

Two  days  after  the  marriage — on  Wednesday,  the  ninth  of 
September — a  packet  of  letters,  received  at  Windygates,  was 
forwarded  by  Lady  Lundie's  steward  to  Ham  Farm. 

With  one  exception,  the  letters  were  all  addressed  either  to 
Sir  Patrick  or  to  his  sister-in-law.  The  one  exception  was 
directed  to  "Arnold  Brinkworth,  Esq.,  care  of  Lady  Lundie, 
Windygates  House,  Perthshire" — and  the  envelope  was  special- 
ly protected  by  a  seal. 

Noticing  that  the  post-mark  was  "  Glasgow,"  Sir  Patrick 
(to  whom  the  letter  had  been  delivered)  looked  with  a  certain 
distrust  at  the  handwriting  on  the  address.  It  was  not  known 
to  him — but  it  was  obviously  the  handwriting  of  a  woman. 
Lady  Lundie  was  sitting  opposite  to  him  at  the  table.  He 
said,  carelessly,  "A  letter  for  Arnold  " — and  pushed  it  across 
to  her.  Her  ladyship  took  up  the  letter,  and  dropped  it,  the 
instant  she  looked  at  the  handwriting,  as  if  it  had  burned  her 
fingers. 

"The  Person  again!"  exclaimed  Lady  Lundie.  "The  Per- 
son, presuming  to  address  Arnold  Brinkworth,  at  my  house  !" 


MAN    AND    WIFB.  331 

"  Miss  Silvester  ?"  asked  Sir  Patrick. 

"No,"  said  her  ladyship,  shutting  her  teeth  with  a  snap. 
"The  Person  may  insult  me  by  addressing  a  letter  to  my  care. 
But  the  Person's  name  shall  not  pollute  my  lips.  Not  even  in 
your  house.  Sir  Patrick.     Not  even  to  please  yoii." 

Sir  Patrick  was  sufficiently  answered.  After  all  that  had 
happened — after  her  farewell  letter  to  Blanche — here  was  Miss 
Silvester  writing  to  Blanche's  husband,  of  her  own  accord  !  It 
was  unaccountable,  to  say  the  least  of  it.  He  took  the  letter 
back,  and  looked  at  it  again.  Lady  Lundie's  steward  was  a 
methodical  man.  He  had  indorsed  each  letter  received  at 
Windygates  with  the  date  of  its  delivery.  The  letter  address- 
ed to  Arnold  had  been  delivered  on  Monday,  the  seventh  of 
September — on  Arnold's  wedding-day. 

What  did  it  mean  ? 

It  was  pure  waste  of  time  to  inquire.  Sir  Patrick  rose  to 
lock  the  letter  up  in  one  of  the  drawers  of  the  writing-table 
behind  him.  Lady  Lundie  interfered  (in  the  interest  of  moral- 
ity). 

"  Sir  Patrick !" 

"  Yes  ?" 

"  Don't  you  consider  it  your  duty  to  open  that  letter  ?" 

"My  dear  lady  !  what  can  you  possibly  be  thinking  of?" 

The  most  virtuous  of  living  women  had  her  answer  ready 
on  the  spot. 

"  I  am  thinking,"  said  Lady  Lundie,  "of  Arnold's  moral  wel- 
fare." 

Sir  Patrick  smiled.  On  the  long  list  of  those  respectable 
disguises  under  which  we  assert  our  own  importance,  or  gratify 
our  own  love  of  meddling  in  our  neighbor's  .affairs,  a  moral  re- 
gard for  the  welfare  of  others  figures  in  the  foremost  place, 
and  stands  deservedly  as  number  one. 

"We  shall  probably  hear  from  Arnold  in  a  day  or  two,"  said 
Sir  Patrick,  locking  the  letter  up  in  the  drawer.  "  He  shall 
have  it  as  soon  as  I  know  where  to  send  it  to  him." 

The  next  morning  brought  news  of  the  bride  and  bridegroom. 

They  reported  themselves  to  be  too  supremely  happy  to 
care  where  they  lived,  so  long  as  they  lived  together.  Every 
question  but  the  question  of  love  was  left  in  the  competent 
hands  of  their  courier.  This  sensible  and  trustworthy  man 
had  decided  that  Paris  was  not  to  be  thought  of  as  a  place  of 
residence,  by  anj'  sane  human  being,  in  the  month  of  September. 
He  had  airanged  that  they  were  to  leave  for  Baden — on  their 
way  to  SM'itzerland — on  the  tenth.  Letters  were  accordingly 
to  be  addressed  to  that  place,  until  further  notice.  If  the 
courier  liked  Baden,  they  would  probably  stay  there  for  some 
time.     If  the  courier  took   a  fancy  for   the   mountains,  they 


332  MAIS"    AND    WIFE, 

would  in  that  case  go  on  to  Switzerland.  In  the  mean  while 
nothing  mattered  to  Arnold  but  Blanche — and  nothing  mat- 
tered to  Blanche  but  Arnold. 

Sir  Patrick  re-directed  Anne  Silvester's  letter  to  Arnold,  at 
the  Poste  Restante,  Baden.  A  second  letter,  which  had  arrived 
that  morning  (addressed  to  Arnold  in  a  legal  handwriting,  and 
bearing  the  post-mark  of  Edinburgh),  was  forwarded  in  the 
same  way,  and  at  the  same  time. 

Two  days  later  Ham  Farm  was  deserted  by  the  guests. 
Lady  Lundie  had  gone  back  to  Windygates.  The  rest  had 
separated  in  their  diiferent  directions.  Sir  Patrick,  who  also 
contemplated  returning  to  Scotland,  remained  behind  for  a 
week — a  solitary  prisoner  in  his  own  country  house.  Accumu- 
lated arrears  of  business,  with  which  it  was  impossible  for  his 
steward  to  deal  single-handed,  obliged  him  to  remain  at  his 
estates  in  Kent  for  that  time.  To  a  man  without  a  taste  for 
partridge-shooting  the  ordeal  was  a  trying  one.  Sir  Patrick 
got  through  the  day  with  the  help  of  his  business  and  his  books. 
In  the  evening  the  rector  of  a  neighboring  parish  drove  over 
to  dinner,  and  engaged  his  host  at  the  noble  but  obsolete  game 
of  piquet.  They  arranged  to  meet  at  each  other's  houses  on 
alternate  days.  The  rector  was  an  admirable  player ;  and  Sir 
Patrick,  though  a  born  Presbyterian,  blessed  the  Church  of 
England  from  the  bottom  of  his  heart. 

Three  more  days  passed.  Business  at  Ham  Farm  began  to 
draw  to  an  end.  The  time  for  Sir  Patrick's  journey  to  Scot- 
land came  nearer.  The  two  partners  at  piquet  agreed  to  meet 
for  a  final  game,  on  the  next  night,  at  the  rector's  house.  But 
(let  us  take  comfort  in  remembering  it)  our  superiors  in  Church 
and  State  are  as  completely  at  the  mercy  of  circumstances  as 
the  humblest  and  the  poorest  of  us.  That  last  game  of  piquet 
between  the  baronet  and  the  parson  was  never  to  be  played. 

On  the  afternoon  of  the  fourth  day  Sir  Patrick  came  in  from 
a  drive,  and  found  a  letter  from  Arnold  waiting  for  him,  which 
had  been  delivered  by  the  second  post. 

Judged  by  externals  only,  it  was  a  letter  of  an  unusually 
perplexing — possibly  also  of  an  unusually  interesting — kind. 
Arnold  was  one  of  the  last  persons  in  the  world  whom  any  of 
his  friends  would  have  suspected  of  being  a  lengthy  corre- 
spondent. Here,  nevertheless,  was  a  letter  from  him,  of  three 
times  the  customary  bulk  and  weight — and,  apparently,  of 
more  than  common  importance,  in  the  matter  of  news,  besides. 
At  the  top  of  the  envelope  was  marked  '''' Lnmediatey  And  at 
one  side  (also  underlined)  was  the  ominous  word,  '"'' Private?'' 

"  Nothing  wrong,  I  hope  ?"  thought  Sir  Patrick, 

He  opened  the  envelope. 

Two  inclosures  fell  out  on  the  table.     He  looked  at  them  for 


MAN    AND    WIFE.  333 

a  moment.  They  were  the  two  letters  which  he  had  for- 
warded to  Baden.  The  third  letter  remaining  in  his  hand,  and 
occupying  a  double  sheet,  was  from  Arnold  himself.  Sir  Pat- 
rick read  Arnold's  letter  first.  It  was  dated  "  Baden,"  and  it 
began  as  follows : 

"  My  dear  Sir  Patrick, — Don't  be  alarmed,  if  you  can  possi- 
bly help  it.     I  am  in  a  terrible  mess." 

Sir  Patrick  looked  up  for  a  moment  from  the  letter.  Given 
a  young  man  who  dates  from  "  Baden,"  and  declares  himself 
to  be  in  "  a  terrible  mess,"  as  representing  the  circumstances  of 
the  case — what  is  the  interpretation  to  be  placed  on  them? 
Sir  Patrick  drew  the  inevitable  conclusion.  Arnold  had  been 
gambling. 

He  shook  his  head,  and  went  on  with  the  letter. 

"  I  must  say,  dreadful  as  it  is,  that  I  am  not  to  blame — nor 
she  either,  poor  thing." 

Sir  Patrick  paused  again.  "  She  ?"  Blanche  had  apparent- 
ly been  gambling  too  !  Nothing  was  wanting  to  complete  the 
picture  but  an  announcement  in  the  next  sentence,  presenting 
the  courier  as  carried  away,  in  his  turn,  by  the  insatiate  pas- 
sion for  play.     Sir  Patrick  resumed : 

"  You  can  not,  I  am  sure,  expect  me  to  have  known  the  law. 
And  as  for  poor  Miss  Silvester — " 

"  Miss  Silvester  ?"  What  had  Miss  Silvester  to  do  with  it  ? 
And  what  could  be  the  meaning  of  the  reference  to  "  the  law  ?" 

Sir  Patrick  had  read  the  letter,  thus  far,  standing  up.  A 
vague  distrust  stole  over  him  at  the  appearance  of  Miss  Silves- 
ter's name  in  connection  with  the  lines  which  had  preceded  it. 
He  felt  nothing  approaching  to  a  clear  prevision  of  what  was 
to  come.  Some  indescribable  influence  was  at  work  in  him, 
which  shook  his  nerves,  and  made  him  feel  the  infirmities  of 
his  age  (as  it  seemed)  on  a  sudden.  It  went  no  further  than 
that.  He  was  obliged  to  sit  down :  he  was  obliged  to  wait  a 
moment  before  he  went  on. 

The  letter  proceeded,  in  these  words : 

"And,  as  for  poor  Miss  Silvester,  though  she  felt,  as  she  re- 
minds me,  some  misgivings — still,  she  never  could  have  fore- 
seen, being  no  lawyer  either,  how  it  was  to  end.  I  hardly 
know  the  best  way  to  break  it  to  you.  I  can't,  and  won't,  be- 
lieve it  myself.  But  even  if  it  should  be  true,  I  am  quite  sure 
you  will  find  a  way  out  of  it  for  us.  I  will  stick  at  nothing, 
and  Miss  Silvester  (as  you  will  see  by  her  letter)  will  stick  at 
nothing  either,  to  set  things  right.  Of  course,  I  have  not  said 
one  word  to  my  darling  Blanche,  who  is  quite  happy,  and  sus- 
pects nothing.  All  this,  dear  Sir  Patrick,  is  very  badly  written, 
I  am  afraid,  but  it  is  meant  to  prepare  you,  and  to  put  the  best 
side  on  matters  at  starting.     However,  the  truth  must  be  told 


334  MAN   AND    WIFE. 

— and  shame  on  the  Scotch  law  is  what  I  say.  This  it  is,  in 
short :  Geoffrey  Delamayn  is  even  a  greater  scoundrel  than 
you  think  him;  and  I  bitterly  repent  (as  things  have  turned 
out)  having  held  my  tongue  that  night  when  you  and  I  had 
our  private  talk  at  Ham  Farm.  You  will  think  I  am  mixing 
two  things  up  together.  But  I  am  not.  Please  to  keep  this 
about  Geoffrey  in  your  mind,  and  piece  it  together  with  what 
I  have  next  to  say.  The  worst  is  still  to  come.  Miss  Silves- 
ter's letter  (inclosed)  tells  me  this  terrible  thing.  You  must 
know  that  I  went  to  her  privately,  as  Geoffrey's  messenger,  on 
the  day  of  the  lawn-party  at  Windygates.  Well  —  how  it 
could  have  happened.  Heaven  only  knows — but  there  is  reason 
to  fear  that  I  married  her,  without  being  aware  of  it  myself,  in 
August  last,  at  the  Craig  Fernie  inn." 

The  letter  dropped  from  Sir  Patrick's  hand.  He  sank  back 
in  the  chair,  stunned  for  the  moment,  under  the  shock  that  had 
fallen  on  him. 

He  rallied,  and  rose  bewildered  to  his  feet.  He  took  a  turn 
in  the  room.  He  stopped,  and  summoned  his  will,  and  stead- 
ied himself  by  main  force.  He  picked  up  the  letter,  and  read 
the  last  sentence  again.  His  face  flushed.  He  was  on  the 
point  of  yielding  himself  to  a  useless  outburst  of  anger  against 
Arnold,  when  his  better  sense  checked  him  at  the  last  moment. 
"  One  fool  in  the  family  is  enough,"  he  said.  "JWy  business 
in  this  dreadful  emergency  is  to  keep  my  head  clear  for 
Blanche's  sake." 

He  waited  once  more,  to  make  sure  of  his  own  composure — 
and  turned  again  to  the  letter,  to  see  what  the  writer  had  to 
say  for  himself,  in  the  way  of  explanation  and  excuse. 

Arnold  had  plenty  to  say — with  the  drawback  of  not  know- 
ing how  to  say  it.  It  was  hard  to  decide  which  quality  in  his 
letter  was  most  marked — the  total  absence  of  arrangement,  or 
the  total  absence  of  reserve.  Without  beginning,  middle,  or 
end,  he  told  the  story  of  his  fatal  connection  with  the  troubles 
of  Anne  Silvester,  from  the  memorable  day  when  Geoffrey 
Delamayn  sent  him  to  Craig  Fernie,  to  the  equally  memorable 
night  when  Sir  Patrick  had  tried  vainly  to  make  him  open  his 
lips  at  Ham  Farm. 

"I  own  I  have  behaved  like  a  fool,"  the  letter  concluded, 
"in  keeping  Geoffrey  Delamayn's  secret  for  him — as  things 
have  turned  out.  But  how  could  I  tell  upon  him  without  com- 
promising Miss  Silvester  ?  Read  her  letter,  and  you  will  see 
what  she  says,  and  how  generously  she  releases  me.  It's  no 
use  saying  I  am  sorry  I  wasn't  more  cautious.  The  mischief 
is  done.  I'll  stick  at  nothing — as  I  have  said  before — to  undo 
it.  Only  tell  me  what  is  the  first  step  I  am  to  take ;  and,  as 
long  as  it  don't  part  me  from  Blanche,  rely  on  my  taking  it. 


MAN   AND   WIFB.  335 

Waiting  to  hear  from  yon,  I  remain,  dear  Sir  Patrick,  yours  in 
great  perplexity,  Arnold  Brinkworth." 

Sir  Patrick  folded  the  letter,  and  looked  at  the  two  inclo- 
sures  lying  on  the  table.  His  eye  was  hard,  his  brow  was 
frowning,  as  he  put  his  hand  to  take  up  Anne's  letter.  The 
letter  from  Arnold's  agent  in  Edinburgh  lay  nearer  to  him. 
As  it  happened,  he  took  that  first. 

It  was  short  enough,  and  clearly  enough  written,  to  invite  a 
reading  before  he  put  it  down  again.  The  lawyer  reported 
that  he  had  made  the  necessary  inquiries  at  Glasgow,  with  this 
result :  Anne  had  been  traced  to  The  Sheep's  Head  Hotel, 
She  had  lain  there  utterly  helpless,  from  illness,  until  the  begin- 
ning of  September.  She  had  been  advertised,  without  result, 
in  the  Glasgow  newspapers.  On  the  5th  of  September  she  had 
sufficiently  recovered  to  be  able  to  leave  the  hotel.  She  had 
been  seen  at  the  railway  station  on  the  same  day— but  from 
that  point  all  trace  of  her  had  been  lost  once  more.  The  law- 
yer had  accordingly  stopped  the  proceedings,  and  now  waited 
further  instructions  from  his  client. 

This  letter  was  not  without  its  effect  in  encouraging  Sir  Pat- 
rick to  suspend  the  harsh  and  hasty  judgment  of  Anne,  which 
any  man,  placed  in  his  present  situation,  must  have  been  in- 
clined to  form.  Her  illness  claimed  its  small  share  of  sympa- 
thy. Her  friendless  position — so  plainly  and  so  sadly  revealed 
by  the  advertising  in  the  newspapers — pleaded  for  merciful 
construction  of  faults  committed,  if  faults  there  were.  Grave- 
ly, but  not  angrily,  Sir  Patrick  opened  her  letter — the  letter 
that  cast  a  doubt  on  his  niece's  marriage. 

Thus  Anne  Silvester  wrote : 

"Glasgow,  September  5. 

"  Dear  Mr.  Brinkworth, — Nearly  three  weeks  since  I  at- 
tempted to  write  to  you  from  this  place.  I  was  seized  by 
sudden  illness  while  I  was  engaged  over  my  letter;  and  from 
that  time  to  this  I  have  laid  helpless  in  bed — very  near,  as 
they  tell  me,  to  death.  I  was  strong  enough  to  be  dressed, 
and  to  sit  up  for  a  little  while  yesterday  and  the  day  before. 
To-day  I  have  made  a  better  advance  toward  recovery,  I 
can  hold  my  pen,  and  control  my  thoughts.  The  first  use  to 
which  I  put  this  improvement  is  to  write  these  lines. 

"I  am  going  (so  far  as  I  know)  to  surprise — possibly  to 
alarm — you.  There  is  no  escaping  from  it,  for  you  or  for  me : 
it  must  be  done. 

"  Thinking  of  how  best  to  introduce  what  I  am  now  obliged 
to  say,  I  can  find  no  better  way  than  this.  I  must  ask  you  to 
take  your  memory  back  to  a  day  which  we  have  both  bitter 
reason  to  regret — the  day  when  Geoffrey  Delamayn  sent  you 
to  see  me  at  the  inn  at  Craig  Fernie. 


336  MAN    AND    WIFE. 

"  You  may  possibly  not  remember — it  unhappily  produced 
no  impression  on  you  at  the  time — that  I  felt,  and  expressed, 
more  than  once  on  that  occasion,  a  very  great  dislike  to  your 
passing  me  off  on  the  people  of  the  inn  as  your  wife.  It  was 
necessary  to  my  being  permitted  to  remain  at  Craig  Fernie 
that  you  should  do  so.  I  knew  this;  but  still  I  shrank  from 
it.  It  was  impossible  for  me  to  contradict  you,  without  in- 
volving you  in  the  painful  consequences,  and  running  the  risk 
of  making  a  scandal  which  might  find  its  way  to  Blanche's 
ears.  I  knew  this  also;  but  still  my  conscience  reproached  me. 
It  was  a  vague  feeling.  I  was  quite  unaware  of  the  actual 
danger  in  which  you  were  placing  yourself,  or  I  would  have 
spoken  out,  no  matter  what  came  of  it.  I  had  what  is  called  a 
presentiment  that  you  were  not  acting  discreetly  —  nothing 
moi-e.  As  I  love  and  honor  my  mother's  memory — as  I  trust 
in  the  mercy  of  God — this  is  the  truth. 

"  You  left  the  inn  the  next  morning,  and  we  have  not  met 
since. 

"  A  few  days  after  you  went  away  my  anxieties  grew  more 
than  I  could  bear  alone.  I  went  secretly  to  Windygates,  and 
had  an  interview  with  Blanche. 

"  She  was  absent  for  a  few  minutes  from  the  room  in  which 
we  had  met.  In  that  interval  I  saw  Geoffrey  Delamayn  for 
the  first  time  since  I  had  left  him  at  Lady  Lunelle's  lawn-party. 
He  treated  me  as  if  I  was  a  stranger.  He  told  me  that  he  had 
found  out  all  that  had  passed  between  us  at  the  inn.  He  said 
he  had  taken  a  lawyei-'s  opinion.  Oh,  Mr.  Brinkworth  !  how 
can  I  break  it  to  you  ?  how  can  I  write  the  words  which  re- 
peat what  he  said  to  me  next  ?  It  must  be  done.  Cruel  as  it 
is,  it  must  be  done.  He  refused  to  my  face  to  marry  me.  He 
said  I  was  married  already.     He  said  I  was  your  wife. 

"Now  you  know  why  I  have  referred  you  to  what  I  felt 
(and  confessed  to  feeling)  when  we  were  together  at  Craig 
Fernie.  If  you  think  hard  thoughts,  and  say  hard  words  of 
me,  I  can  claim  no  right  to  blame  you.  I  am  innocent — and 
yet  it  is  my  fault. 

"  My  head  swims,  and  the  foolish  tears  are  rising  in  spite  of 
me.     I  must  leave  off,  and  rest  a  little. 

"I  have  been  sitting  at  the  window,  and  watching  the  peo- 
ple in  the  street  as  they  go  by.  They  are  all  strangers.  But, 
somehow,  the  sight  of  them  seems  to  rest  my  mind.  The  hum 
of  the  great  city  gives  me  heart,  and  helps  me  to  go  on. 

"  I  can  not  trust  myself  to  write  of  the  man  who  has  be- 
trayed us  both.  Disgraced  and  broken  as  I  am,  there  is  some- 
thing still  left  in  me  which  lifts  me  above  him.  If  he  came 
repentant  at  this  moment,  and  offered  me  all  that  rank  and 


MAN    AND    WIPE.  339 

wealth  and  worldly  consideration  can  give,  I  would  rather  be 
what  I  am  now  than  be  his  wife, 

"  Let  me  speak  of  you,  and  (for  Blanche's  sake)  let  me  speak 
of  myself 

"  I  ought,  no  doubt,  to  have  waited  to  see  you  at  Windy- 
gates,  and  to  have  told  you  at  once  of  what  had  happened. 
But  I  was  weak  and  ill ;  and  the  shock  of  heaving  what  I  heard 
fell  so  heavily  on  me  that  I  fainted.  After  I  came  to  myself  I 
was  so  horrified,  when  I  thought  of  you  and  Blanche,  that  a 
sort  of  madness  possessed  me.  I  had  but  one  idea — the  idea 
of  running  away  and  hiding  myself 

"  My  mind  got  clearer  and  quieter  on  the  way  to  this  place ; 
and,  arrived  here,  I  did  what  I  hope  and  believe  was  the  best 
thing  I  could  do.  I  consulted  two  lawyers.  They  differed  in 
opinion  as  to  whether  we  were  married  or  not — according  to 
the  law  which  decides  on  such  things  in  Scotland.  The  first 
said  Yes.  The  second  said  No — but  advised  me  to  write  im- 
mediately and  tell  you  the  position  in  which  you  stood.  I  at- 
tempted to  write  the  same  day,  and  fell  ill  as  you  know. 

"Thank  God,  the  delay  that  has  happened  is  of  no  conse- 
quence. I  asked  Blanche,  at  Windygates,  when  you  were  to 
be  married — and  she  told  me  not  until  the  end  of  the  autumn. 
It  is  only  the  fifth  of  September  now.  You  have  plenty  of 
time  before  you.     For  all  our  sakes,  make  good  use  of  it. 

"  What  are  you  to  do  ? 

"  Go  at  once  to  Sir  Patrick  Lundie,  and  show  him  this  let- 
ter. Follow  his  advice — no  matter  how  it  may  affect  me.  I 
should  ill  requite  your  kindness,  I  should  be  false  indeed  to 
the  love'  I  bear  to  Blanche,  if  I  hesitated  to  brave  any  expos- 
ure that  may  now  be  necessary  in  your  interests  and  in  hers. 
You  have  been  all  that  is  generous,  all  that  is  delicate,  all  that 
is  kind  in  this  mattei".  You  have  kept  my  disgraceful  secret 
— I  am  quite  sure  of  it — with  the  fidelity  of  an  honorable  man 
who  has  had  a  woman's  reputation  placed  in  his  charge.  I 
release  you,  with  my  whole  heart,  dear  Mr.  Brinkworth,  from 
your  pledge.  I  entreat  you,  on  my  knees,  to  consider  yourself 
free  to  reveal  the  truth.  I  will  make  any  acknowledgment, 
on  my  side,  that  is  needful  under  the  circumstances — no  mat- 
ter how  public  it  may  be.  Release  yourself  at  any  price ;  and 
then,  and  not  till  then,  give  back  your  regai'd  to  the  miserable 
woman  who  has  laden  you  with  the  burden  of  her  sorrow,  and 
darkened  your  life  for  a  moment  with  the  shadow  of  her 
shame. 

"Pray  don't  think  there  is  any  painful  sacrifice  involved  in 
this.  The  quieting  of  my  own  mind  is  involved  in  it — and 
that  is  all. 

"What  has  life  left  for  mef    Nothinsr  but  the  barren  ne- 


340  MAN    AND    WIFE. 

cessity  of  living.  When  I  think  of  the  future  now,  my  mind 
passes  over  the  years  that  may  be  left  to  me  in  this  world. 
Sometimes  I  dare  to  hope  that  the  Divine  Mercy  of  Christ — 
which  once  pleaded  on  earth  for  a  woman  like  me — may  plead, 
when  death  has  taken  me,  for  my  spirit  in  Heaven.  Some- 
times I  dare  to  hope  that  I  may  see  my  mother,  and  Blanche's 
mother,  in  the  better  world.  Their  hearts  were  bound  togeth- 
er as  the  hearts  of  sisters  while  they  were  here ;  and  they  left 
to  their  children  the  legacy  of  their  love.  Oh,  help  me  to  say, 
if  we  meet  again,  that  not  in  vain  I  promised  to  l)e  a  sister  to 
Blanche  !  The  debt  I  owe  to  her  is  the  hereditary  debt  of  my 
mother's  gratitude.  And  what  am  I  now?  An  obstacle  in 
the  way  of  the  happiness  of  her  life.  Sacrifice  me  to  that 
happiness,  for  God's  sake !  It  is  the  one  thing  I  have  left  to 
live  for.  Again  and  again  I  say  it — I  care  nothing  for  my- 
self. I  have  no  right  to  be  considered;  I  have  no  wish  to  be 
considered.  Tell  the  whole  truth  about  me,  and  call  me  to 
bear  witness  to  it  as  publicly  as  you  please  ! 

"  I  have  waited  a  little,  once  more,  trying  to  think,  before  I 
close  my  letter,  what  there  may  be  still  left  to  write. 

"I  can  not  think  of  any  thing  left  but  the  duty  of  inform- 
ing you  how  you  may  find  me,  if  you  wish  to  wi'ite — or  if  it 
is  thought  necessary  that  we  should  meet  again. 

"  One  word  before  I  tell  you  this. 

"  It  is  impossible  for  me  to  guess  what  you  will  do,  or  what 
you  will  be  advised  to  do  by  others,  when  you  get  my  letter. 
I  don't  even  know  that  you  ma}^  not  already  have  heard  of 
what  your  position  is  from  Geoffrey  Delaniayn  himself  In 
this  event,  or  in  the  event  of  your  thinking  it  desirable  to  take 
Blanche  into  your  confidence,  I  venture  to  suggest  that  you 
should  appoint  some  person  whom  you  can  trust  to  see  me 
on  your  behalf — or,  if  you  can  not  do  this,  that  you  should 
see  me  in  the  presence  of  a  third  person.  The  man  who  has 
not  hesitated  to  betray  us  both,  will  not  hesitate  to  misrepre- 
sent us  in  the  vilest  way,  if  he  can  do  it  in  the  future.  For 
your  own  sake,  let  us  be  careful  to  give  lying  tongues  no  op- 
portunity of  assailing  your  place  in  Blanche's  estimation.  Don't 
act  so  as  to  risk  putting  yourself  in  a  false  position  again  ! 
Don't  let  it  be  possible  that  a  feeling  unworthy  of  her  should 
be  roused  in  the  loving  and  generous  nature  of  your  future 
wife ! 

"This  written,  I  may  now  tell  you  how  to  communicate  with 
me  after  I  have  left  this  place. 

"You  will  find  on  the  slip  of  paper  inclosed  the  name  and 
address  of  the  second  of  the  two  lawyers  whom  I  consulted 
in  Glasgow.     It  is  arranged  between  us  that  I  am  to  inform 


MAN    AND    WIFE.  341 

hirn,  by  letter,  of  the  next  place  to  which  I  remove,  and  that 
lie  is  to  communicate  the  information  either  to  you  or  to  Sir 
Patrick  Lundie,  on  your  applying  for  it  personally  or  by  writ- 
ino-.  I  don't  yet  know  myself  where  I  may  find  refuge.  Noth- 
ing is  certain  but  that  I  can  not,  in  my  present  state  of  weak- 
ness, travel  far, 

"  If  you  wonder  why  I  move  at  all  until  I  am  stronger,  I 
can  only  give  a  reason  which  may  appear  fanciful  and  over- 
strained. 

"I  have  been  informed  that  I  was  advertised  in  the  Glasgow 
newspapers  during  the  time  when  I  lay  at  this  hotel,  a  stranger 
at  the  point  of  death.  Trouble  has  perhaps  made  me  morbidly 
suspicious.  I  am  afraid  of  what  may  happen  if  I  stay  here,  af- 
ter my  place  of  residence  has  been  made  publicly  known.  So,  as 
soon  as  I  can  move,  I  go  away  in  secret.  It  will  be  enough  for 
me,  if  I  can  find  rest  and  peace  ia  some  quiet  place,  in  the  coun- 
try round  Glasgow.  You  need  feel  no  anxiety  about  my 
means  of  living.  I  have  money  enough  for  all  that  I  need — 
and,  if  I  get  well  again,  I  know  how  to  earn  my  bread. 

"  I  send  no  message  to  Blanche — I  dare  not  till  this  is  over. 
Wait  till  she  is  your  happy  wife  ;  and  then  give  her  a  kiss, 
and  say  it  comes  from  Anne. 

"  Try  and  forgive  me,  dear  Mr.  Brinkworth.  I  have  said  all. 
Yours  gratefully,  Anne  Silvester." 

Sir  Patrick  put  the  letter  down  with  unfeigned  respect  for 
the  woman  who  had  written  it. 

Something  of  the  personal  influence  which  Anne  exercised 
more  or  less  over  all  the  men  with  whom  she  came  in  contact 
seemed  to  communicate  itself  to  the  old  lawyer  through  the 
medium  of  her  letter.  His  thoughts  perversely  wandered 
away  from  the  serious  and  pressing  question  of  his  niece's  po- 
sition, into  a  region  of  purely  speculative  inquiry  relating  to 
Anne.  What  infatuation  (he  asked  himself)  had  placed  that 
noble  creature  at  the  mercy  of  such  a  man  as  Geoffrey  Dela- 
mayn  ? 

We  have  all,  at  one  time  or  another  in  our  lives,  been  per- 
plexed as  Sir  Patrick  was  perplexed  now. 

If  we  know  any  thing  by  experience,  we  know  that  women 
cast  themselves  away  impulsively  on  unworthy  men,  and  that 
men  ruin  themselves  headlong  for  unworthy  vromen.  We 
have  the  institution  of  Divorce  actually  among  us,  existing 
mainly  because  the  two  sexes  are  perpetually  placing  them- 
selves in  these  anomalous  relations  toward  each  other.  And 
yet,  at  every  fresh  instance  which  comes  before  us,  we  persist 
in  being  astonished  to  find  that  the  man  and  the  woman  have 
not  chosen  each  other  on  rational  and  producible  grounds ! 


342  MAN    AND   WIFE. 

We  expect  human  passion  to  act  on  logical  principles ;  and 
human  fallibility — with  love  for  its  guide — to  be  above  all  dan- 
ger of  making  a  mistake  I  Ask  the  wisest  among  Anne  Silves- 
ter's sex  what  they  saw  to  rationally  justify  them  in  choosing 
the  men  to  whom  they  have  given  their  hearts  and  their  lives, 
and  you  will  be  putting  a  question  to  those  wise  women  which 
they  never  once  thought  of  putting  to  themselves.  Nay, 
more  still  —  look  into  your  own  experience,  and  say  frankly, 
Could  you  justify  your  own  excellent  choice  at  the  time  when 
you  irrevocably  made  it  ?  Could  you  have  put  your  reasons 
on  paper  when  you  first  owned  to  yourself  that  you  loved  him  ? 
And  would  the  reasons  have  borne  critical  inspection  if  you 
had? 

Sir  Patrick  gave  it  up  in  despair.  The  interests  of  his  niece 
were  at  stake.  He  wisely  determined  to  rouse  his  mind  by 
occupying  himself  with  tlie  practical  necessities  of  the  moment. 
It  was  essential  to  send  an  apology  to  the  rector,  in  the  first 
place,  so  as  to  leave  the  evening  at  his  disposal  for  considering 
what  preliminary  course  of  conduct  he  should  advise  Arnold 
to  pursue. 

After  writing  a  few  lines  of  apology  to  his  partner  at  Piquet 
— assigning  family  business  as  the  excuse  for  breaking  his  en- 
gagement— Sir  Patrick  rang  the  bell.  The  faithful  Duncan 
appeared,  and  saw  at  once  in  his  master's  face  that  something 
had  happened. 

"  Send  a  man  with  this  to  the  Rectory,"  said  Sir  Patrick. 
"  I  can't  dine  out  to-day.     I  must  have  a  chop  at  home." 

"  I  am  afraid,  Sir  Patrick — if  I  may  be  excused  for  remark- 
ing it — you  have  had  some  bad  news  ?" 

"  The  worst  possible  news,  Duncan.  I  can't  tell  you  about 
it  now.  Wait  within  hearing  of  the  bell.  In  the  mean  time 
let  nobody  interrupt  me.  If  the  steward  himself  comes,  I  can't 
see  him." 

After  thinking  it  over  carefully.  Sir  Patrick  decided  that 
there  was  no  alternative  but  to  send  a  message  to  Arnold  and 
Blanche,  summoning  them  back  to  England  in  the  first  place. 
The  necessity  of  questioning  Arnold,  in  the  minutest  detail,  as 
to  every  thing  tliat  had  happened  between  Anne  Silvester  and 
himself  at  the  Craig  Fernie  inn,  was  the  first  and  foremost 
necessity  of  the  case. 

At  the  same  time  it  appeared  to  be  desirable,  for  Blanche's 
sake,  to  keep  her  in  ignorance,  for  the  present  at  least,  of  what 
had  happened.  Sir  Patrick  met  this  difliculty  with  character- 
istic ingenuity  and  readiness  of  resource. 

He  wrote  a  telegram  to  Arnold,  expressed  in  the  following 
terms : 

"  Your  letter  and  inclosures  received.    Return  to  Ham  Farm 


MAN    AND    WIFB.  343 

as  soon  as  you  conveniently  can.  Keep  the  thing  still  a  secret 
from  Blanche.  Tell  her,  as  the  reason  for  coming  back,  that 
the  lost  trace  of  Anne  Silvester  has  been  recovered,  and  that 
there  may  be  reasons  for  her  returning  to  England  before  any 
thing  further  can  be  done." 

Duncan  having  been  dispatched  to  the  station  with  this  mes- 
sage, Duncan's  master  proceeded  to  calculate  the  question  of 
time. 

Arnold  would  in  all  probability  receive  the  telegram  at  Ba- 
den on  the  next  day,  September  the  seventeenth.  In  three 
days  more  he  and  Blanche  might  be  expected  to  reach  Ham 
Farm.  During  the  interval  thus  placed  at  his  disposal  Sir 
Patrick  would  have  ample  time  in  which  to  recover  himself, 
and  to  see  his  way  to  acting  for  the  best  in  the  alarming 
emergency  that  now  confronted  him. 

On  the  nineteenth  Sir  Patrick  received  a  telegram  informing 
him  that  he  might  expect  to  see  the  young  couple  late  in  the 
evening  on  the  twentieth. 

Late  in  the  evening  the  sound  of  carriage-wheels  was  au- 
dible on  the  drive  ;  and  Sir  Patrick,  opening  the  door  of  his 
room,  heard  the  familiar  voices  in  the  hall. 

"  Well !"  cried  Blanche,  catching  sight  of  him  at  the  door, 
"  is  Anne  found  ?" 

"  Not  just  yet,  my  dear." 

"  Is  there  news  of  her  ?" 

"  Yes." 

"Am  I  in  time  to  be  of  use  ?" 

"  In  excellent  time.  You  shall  hear  all  about  it  to-morrow. 
Go  and  take  off  your  traveling-things,  and  come  down  again 
to  supper  as  soon  as  you  can." 

Blanche  kissed  him,  and  went  on  up  stairs.  She  had,  as 
her  uncle  thought  in  the  glimpse  he  had  caught  of  her,  been 
improved  by  her  marriage.  It  had  quieted  and  steadied  her. 
There  were  graces  in  her  look  and  manner  which  Sir  Patrick 
had  not  noticed  before.  Arnold,  on  his  side,  appeared  "to  less 
advantage.  He  was  restless  and  anxious ;  his  position  with 
Miss  Silvester  seemed  to  be  preying  on  his  mind.  As  soon  as 
his  young  wife's  back  was  turned,  he  appealed  to  Sir  Patrick  in 
an  eager  whisper. 

"  I  hardly  dare  ask  you  what  I  have  got  it  on  my  mind  to 
say,"  he  began.  "  I  must  bear  it,  if  you  are  angry  with  me, 
Sir  Patrick.  But — only  tell  me  one  thing.  Is  there  a  way  out 
of  it  for  us  ?     Have  you  thought  of  that  ?" 

"  I  can  not  trust  myself  to  speak  of  it  clearly  and  composed- 
ly to-night,"  said  Sir  Patrick.  "  Be  satisfied  if  I  tell  you  that  I 
have  thousfht  it  all  out — and  wait  for  the  rest  till  to-morrow." 


344  MAN    AND   WIFE. 

Other  persons  concerned  in  the  coming  drama  had  had  past 
difficulties  to  think  out,  and  future  movements  to  consider, 
during  the  interval  occupied  by  Arnold  and  Blanche  on  their 
return  journey  to  England.  Between  the  seventeenth  and  the 
twentieth  of  September  Geoifrey  Delamayn  had  left  Swanha- 
ven,  on  the  way  to  his  new  training  quarters  in  the  neighbor- 
hood in  which  the  Foot-Race  at  Fulham  was  to  be  run.  Be- 
tween the  same  dates,  also,  Captain  Newenden  had  taken  the 
opportunity,  while  passing  through  London  on  his  way  south, 
to  consult  his  solicitors.  The  object  of  the  conference  was  to 
find  means  of  discovering  an  anonymous  letter-writer  in  Scot- 
land, who  had  presumed  to  cause  serious  annoyance  to  Mrs. 
Glenarm. 

Thus,  by  ones  and  twos,  converging  from  widely  distant 
quarters,  they  were  now  beginning  to  draw  together,  in  the 
near  neighborhood  of  the  great  city  which  was  soon  destined 
to  assemble  them  all,  for  the  first  and  the  last  time  in  this 
world,  face  to  face. 


CHAPTER  THE  THIRTY-SEVENTH. 

THE  WAY  OUT. 

Breakfast  was  just  over.  Blanche,  seeing  a  pleasantly- 
idle  morning  before  her,  proposed  to  Arnold  to  take  a  stroll  in 
the  grounds. 

The  garden  was  bright  with  sunshine,  and  the  bride  was 
bright  with  good-humor.  She  caught  her  uncle's  eye,  looking 
at  her  admiringly,  and  paid  him  a  little  compliment  in  return. 
"  You  have  no  idea,"  she  said,  "  how  nice  it  is  to  be  back  at 
Ham  Farm !" 

"  I  am  to  understand  then,"  rejoined  Sir  Patrick,  "  that  I  am 
forgiven  for  interrupting  the  honey-moon  ?" 

"  You  are  more  than  forgiven  for  interrupting  it,"  said 
Blanche — "  you  are  thanked.  As  a  married  woman,"  she  pro- 
ceeded, with  the  air  of  a  matron  of  at  least  twenty  years' 
standing,  "  I  have  been  thinking  the  subject  over,  and  I  have 
arrived  at  the  conclusion  that  a  honey-moon  which  takes  the 
form  of  a  tour  on  the  Continent,  is  one  of  our  national  abuses 
which  stands  in  need  of  reform.  When  you  are  in  love  with 
each  other  (I  consider  a  marriage  without  love  to  be  no  mar- 
riage at  all),  what  do  you  want  with  the  excitement  of  see- 
ing strange  places  ?  Isn't  it  excitement  enough,  and  isn't  it 
strange  enough,  to  a  newly-maiTied  woman  to  see  such  a  to- 
tal novelty  as  a  husband  ?  What  is  the  most  interesting  ob- 
ject on  the  face  of  creation  to  a  ijian  in  Arnold's  position  ? 


MAN    AND    WIFE.  345 

The  Alps?  Certainly  not !  The  most  interesting  object  is  the 
wife.  And  the  proper  time  for  a  bridal  tour  is  the  time — say 
ten  or  a  dozen  years  later — when  you  are  beginning  (not  to 
get  tired  of  each  other ;  that's  out  of  the  question)  but  to  get 
a  little  too  well  used  to  each  other.  Then  take  your  tour  to 
Switzerland — and  you  give  the  Alps  a  chance.  A  succession 
of  honey-moon  trips,  in  the  autumn  of  married  life  —  there 
is  my  proposal  for  an  improvement  on  the  present  state  of 
things  !  Come  into  the  garden,  Arnold ;  and  let  us  calculate 
how  long  it  will  be  before  we  get  weary  of  each  other,  and 
want  the  beauties  of  nature  to  keep  xxs  company." 

Arnold  looked  appealiugly  to  Sir  Patrick.  Not  a  word  had 
passed  between  them,  as  yet,  on  the  serious  subject  of  Anne 
Silvester's  letter.  Sir  Patrick  undertook  the  responsibility  of 
making  the  necessary  excuses  to  Blanche. 

"  Forgive  me,"  he  said,  "  if  I  ask  leave  to  interfere  with  your 
monopoly  of  Arnold  for  a  little  while.  I  have  something  to 
say  to  him  about  his  property  in  Scotland.  Will  you  leave 
him  with  me,  if  I  promise  to  release  him  as  soon  as  pos- 
sible ?" 

Blanche  smiled  graciously.  "You  shall  have  him  as  long 
as  you  like,  uncle.  There's  your  hat,"  she  added,  tossing  it  to 
her  husband,  gayly.  "  I  brought  it  in  for  you  when  I  got  my 
own.     You  will  find  me  on  the  lawn." 

She  nodded,  and  went  out. 

"  Let  me  hear  the  worst  at  once.  Sir  Patrick,"  Arnold  began. 
"Is  it  serious?     Do  you  think  I  am  to  blame?" 

"  I  will  answer  your  last  question  first,"  said  Sir  Patrick. 
"Do  I  think  you  are  to  blame?  Yes — in  this  way.  You  com- 
mitted an  act  of  unpardonable  rashness  when  you  consented  to 
go,  as  Geofi"rey  Delamayn's  messenger,  to  Miss  Silvester  at  the 
inn.  Having  once  placed  yourself  in  that  false  position,  you 
could  hardly  have  acted,  afterward,  otherwise  than  you  did. 
You  could  not  be  expected  to  know  the  Scotch  law.  And,  as 
an  honorable  man,  you  were  bound  to  keep  a  secret  confided 
to  you,  in  which  the  reputation  of  a  woman  was  concerned. 
Your  first  and  last  error  in  this  matter  was  the  fatal  error  of 
involving  yourself  in  responsibilities  which  belonged  exclusive- 
ly to  another  man." 

"  The  man  had  saved  my  life,"  pleaded  Arnold — "  and  I  be- 
lieved I  was  giving  service  for  service  to  my  dearest  friend." 

"As  to  your  other  question,"  proceeded  Sir  Patrick.  "Do 
I  consider  your  position  to  be  a  serious  one  ?  Most  assuredly, 
I  do !  So  long  as  we  are  not  absolutely  certain  that  Blanche 
is  your  lawful  wife,  the  position  is  more  than  serious :  it  is  un- 
endurable. I  maintain  the  opinion,  mind,  out  of  which  (thanks 
to  your  honorable  silence)  that  scoundrel  Delamayn  contrived 


346  MAN   AND   WIFE. 

to  cheat  me.  I  told  him,  what  I  now  tell  you — that  your  say- 
ings and  doings  at  Craig  Fernie  do  7iot  constitute  a  mari-iage, 
according  to  Scottish  law.  But,"  pursued  Sir  Patrick,  holding 
up  a  warning  forefinger  at  Arnold,  "  you  have  read  it  in  Miss 
Silvester's  letter,  and  you  may  now  take  it  also  as  a  result  of 
my  experience,  that  no  individual  opinion,  in  a  matter  of  this 
kind,  is  to  be  relied  on.  Of  two  lawyers,  consulted  by  Miss 
Silvester  at  Glasgow,  one  draws  a  directly  opposite  conclusion 
to  mine,  and  decides  that  you  and  she  are  married.  I  believe 
him  to  be  wrong ;  but,  in  our  situation,  we  have  no  other  choice 
than  to  boldly  encounter  the  view  of  the  case  which  he  repre- 
sents. In  plain  English,  we  must  begin  by  looking  the  worst 
in  the  face." 

Arnold  twisted  the  traveling-hat  which  Blanche  had  thrown 
to  him,  nervously,  in  both  hands.  "  Supposing  the  worst 
comes  to  the  worst,"  he  asked, "  what  will  happen  ?" 

Sir  Patrick  shook  his  head. 

"It  is  not  easy  to  tell  you,"  he  said,  "  without  entering  into 
the  legal  aspect  of  the  case.  I  shall  only  puzzle  you  if  I  do 
that.  Suppose  we  look  at  the  matter  in  its  social  bearings — 
I  mean,  as  it  may  possibly  affect  you  and  Blanche,  and  your 
unborn  children  ?"  , 

Arnold  gave  the  hat  a  tighter  twist  than  ever.  "I  never 
thought  of  the  children,"  he  said,  with  a  look  of  consterna- 
tion. 

"The  children  may  present  themselves,"  returned  Sir  Pat- 
rick, dryly,  "  for  all  that.  Now  listen.  It  may  have  occurred 
to  your  mind  that  the  plain  way  out  of  our  present  dilemma 
is  for  you  and  Miss  Silvester,  respectively,  to  affirm  what  we 
know  to  be  the  truth — namely,  that  you  never  had  the  slight- 
est intention  of  marrying  each  other.  Beware  of  founding  any 
hopes  on  any  such  remedy  as  that !  If  you  reckon  on  it,  you 
reckon  without  Geoffrey  Delamayn.  He  is  interested,  remem- 
ber, in  proving  you  and  Miss  Silvester  to  be  man  and  Avife. 
Circumstances  may  arise — I  won't  waste  time  in  guessing  at 
Avhat  they  may  be — which  will  enable  a  third  person  to  pro- 
duce the  landlady  and  the  waiter  at  Craig  Fernie  in  evidence 
against  you — and  to  assert  that  your  declaration  and  Miss 
Silvester's  declaration  are  the  result  of  collusion  between  you 
two.  Don't  start !  Such  things  have  happened  before  now. 
Miss  Silvester  is  jioor,  and  Blanche  is  rich.  You  may  be 
made  to  stand  in  the  awkward  position  of  a  man  who  is  deny- 
ing his  marriage  with  a  poor  woman,  in  order  to  establish  his 
marriage  wnth  an  heiress :  Miss  Silvester  presumably  aiding 
the  fraud,  with  two  strong  interests  of  her  own  as  inducements 
— the  interest  of  assorting  the  claim  to  be  the  wife  of  a  man 
of  rank,  and  the  interest  of  earning  her  reward  in  money  for 


MAN    AND    WIFE.  347 

resigning  yon  to  Blanche.  There  is  a  case  which  a  scoundrel 
might  set  up — and  with  some  appearance  of  truth  too — in  a 
court  of  justice !" 

"Surely  the  law  wouldn't  allow  him  to  do  that?" 
"The  law  will  argue  any  thing,  with  any  body  who  will 
pay  the  law  for  the  use  of  its  brains  and  its  time.  Let  that 
view  of  the  matter  alone  now.  Delamayn  can  set  the  case 
going,  if  he  likes,  without  applying  to  any  lawyer  to  help 
him.  He  has  only  to  cause  a  report  to  reach  Blanche's  ears 
which  publicly  asserts  that  she  is  not  your  lawful  wife.  With 
her  temper,  do  you  suppose  she  would  leave  us  a  minute's 
peace  till  the  matter  was  cleared  up?  Or  take  it  the  other 
way.  Comfort  yourself,  if  you  will,  with  the  idea  that  this 
afiair  will  trouble  nobody  in  the  present.  How  are  we  to 
know  it  may  not  turn  up  in  the  future  under  circumstances 
which  may  place  the  legitimacy  of  your  children  in  doubt? 
We  have  a  man  to  deal  with  who  sticks  at  nothing.  We 
have  a  state  of  the  law  which  can  only  be  described  as  one 
scandalous  uncertainty  from  beginning  to  end.  And  we  have 
two  people  (Bishopriggs  and  Mrs.  Inchbare)  who  can,  and  will, 
speak  to  what  took  place  between  you  and  Anne  Silvester  at 
the  inn.  For  Blanche's  sake,  and  for  the  sake  of  your  unborn 
children,  we  must  face  this  matter  on  the  spot — and  settle  it 
at  once  and  foi'ever.  The  question  before  us  now  is  this  -.  Shall 
we  open  the  proceedings  by  communicating  with  Misis  Silves- 
ter or  not  ?" 

At  that  important  point  in  the  conversation  they  were  in- 
terrupted by  the  re-appearance  of  Blanche.  Had  she,  by  any 
accident,  heard  what  they  had  been  saying  ? 

No ;  it  was  the  old  story  of  most  interruptions.  Idleness 
that  considers  nothing,  had  come  to  look  at  Industry  that 
bears  every  thing.  It  is  a  law  of  nature,  apparently,  that  the 
people  in  this  world  who  have  nothing  to  do  can  not  support 
the  sight  of  an  uninterrupted  occupation  in  the  hands  of  their 
neighbors.  Blanche  produced  a  new  specimen  from  Arnold's 
collection  of  hats.  "  I  have  been  thinking  about  it  in  the  gar- 
den," she  said,  quite  seriously.  "  Here  is  the  brown  one  with 
the  high  crown.  You  look  better  in  this  than  in  the  white 
one  with  the  low  crown.  I  have  come  to  change  them,  that's 
all."  She  changed  the  hats  with  Arnold,  and  went  on,  without 
the  faintest  suspicion  that  she  was  in  the  way.  "  Wear  the 
brown  one  when  you  come  out — and  come  soon,  dear.  I  won't 
stay  an  instant  longer,  uncle — I  wouldn't  interrupt  you  for  the 
world."  She  kissed  her  hand  to  Sir  Patrick,  and  smiled  at  her 
husband,  and  went  out. 


348  MAN   AND   WIFE. 

"  What  were  we  saying  ?"  asked  Arnold.  "  It's  awkward 
to  be  interrupted  in  this  way,  isn't  it  ?" 

"  If  I  know  any  thing  of  female  human  nature,"  returned 
Sir  Patrick,  composedly,  "  your  wife  will  be  in  and  out  of  the 
room,  in  that  way,  the  whole  morning.  I  give  her  ten  min- 
utes, Arnold,  before  she  changes  her  mind  again  on  the  serious 
and  weighty  subject  of  the  white  hat  and  the  brown.  These 
little  interruptions — otherwise  quite  charming — raised  a  doubt 
in  my  mind.  Wouldn't  it  be  wise  (I  ask  myself),  if  we  made 
a  virtue  of  necessity,  and  took  Blanche  into  the  conversation? 
What  do  you  say  to  calling  her  back  and  telling  her  the  truth  '?" 

Arnold  started  and  changed  color. 

"There  are  difficulties  in  the  way,"  he  said. 

"  ^^y  good  fellow  !  at  every  step  of  this  business  there  are 
difficulties  in  the  way.  Sooner  or  later,  your  wife  must  know 
what  has  happened.  The  time  for  telling  her  is,  no  doubt,  a 
matter  for  your  decision,  not  mine.  All  I  say  is  this:  Con- 
sider whether  the  disclosure  won't  come  from  you  with  a  bet- 
ter grace,  if  you  make  it  before  you  are  fairly  driven  to  the 
wall,  and  obliged  to  open  your  lips." 

Arnold  rose  to  his  feet — took  a  turn  in  the  room — sat  down 
again — and  looked  at  Sir  Patrick,  with  the  expression  of  a 
thoroughly  bewildered  and  thoroughly  helpless  man. 

"  I  don't  know  what  to  do,"  he  said.  "  It  beats  me  alto- 
gether. The  truth  is.  Sir  Patrick,  I  was  fairly  forced,  at  Craig 
Fernie,  into  deceiving  Blanche — in  what  might  seem  to  her  a 
very  unfeeling  and  a  very  unpardonable  way." 

"That  sounds  awkward!     What  do  you  mean?" 

"I'll  try  and  tell  you.  You  remember  when  you  went  to 
the  inn  to  see  Miss  Silvester?  Well,  being  there  privately  at 
the  time,  of  course  I  was  obliged  to  keep  out  of  your  way." 

"  I  see  !  And,  when  Blanche  came  afterward,  you  were 
obliged  to  hide  from  Blanche,  exactly  as  you  had  hidden  from 
me  ?" 

"  Worse  even  than  that !  A  day  or  two  later,  Blanche  took 
me  into  her  confidence.  She  spoke  to  me  of  her  visit  to  the 
inn,  as  if  I  was  a  perfect  stranger  to  the  circumstances.  She 
told  me  to  my  face.  Sir  Patrick,  of  the  invisible  man  who  had 
kept  so  strangely  out  of  her  way — without  the  faintest  suspi- 
cion that  I  was  the  man.  And  I  never  opened  my  lips  to  set 
her  right !  I  was  obliged  to  be  silent,  or  I  must  have  betrayed 
Miss  Silvester.  What  will  Blanche  think  of  me  if  I  tell  her 
now  ?     That's  the  question  !" 

Blanche's  name  had  barely  passed  her  husband's  lips  before 
Blanche  hei'self  verified  Sir  Patrick's  prediction,  by  re-appear- 
ing at  the  open  French  window,  with  the  superseded  white 
hat  in  her  hand. 


MAN    AND    WIFE.  349 

"Haven't  you  clone  yet!"  she  exclaimed.  "I  am  shocked, 
uncle,  to  interrupt  you  again  —  but  these  horrid  hats  of  Ar- 
nold's are  beginning  to  weigh  upon  my  mind.  On  reconsider- 
ation, I  think  the  white  hat  with  the  low  crown  is  the  most 
becoming  of  the  two.  Change  again,  dear.  Yes!  the  brown 
hat  is  hideous.  There's  a  beggar  at  the  gate.  Before  I  go 
quite  distracted,  I  shall  give  him  the  brown  hat,  and  have 
done  with  the  difficulty  in  that  manner.  Am  I  very  much  in 
the  way  of  business  ?  I'm  afraid  I  must  appear  restless  ?  In- 
deed, I  am  restless.  I  can't  imagine  what  is  the  matter  with 
me  this  morning." 

"  I  can  tell  you,"  said  Sir  Patrick,  in  his  gravest  and  dryest 
manner.  "You  are  suffering,  Blanche,  from  a  malady  which 
is  exceedingly  common  among  the  young  ladies  of  England. 
As  a  disease  it  is  quite  incurable — and  the  name  of  it  is  Noth- 
ing-to-Do." 

Blanche  dropped  her  uncle  a  smart  little  courtesy.  "You 
might  have  told  me  I  was  in  the  way  in  fewer  words  than 
that."  She  whisked  round,  kicked  the  disgraced  brown  hat 
out  into  the  veranda  before  her,  and  left  the  two  gentlemen 
alone  once  more. 

"Your  position  with  your  wife,  Arnold,"  resumed  Sir  Pat- 
rick, returning  gravely  to  the  matter  in  hand,  "  is  certainly  a 
difficult  one."  He  paused,  tliinking  of  the  evening  when  he 
and  Blanche  had  illustrated  the  vagueness  of  Mrs.  Inchbare's 
description  of  the  man  at  the  inn,  by  citing  Arnold  himself  as 
being  one  of  the  hundreds  of  innocent  people  who  answered  to 
it !  "  Perhaps,"  he  added,  "  the  situation  is  even  more  difficult 
than  you  suppose.  It  would  have  been  certainly  easier  for 
you — and  it  would  have  looked  more  honorable  in  her  estima- 
tion— if  you  had  made  the  inevitable  confession  before  your 
marriage.  I  am,  in  some  degree,  answerable  for  your  not  hav- 
ing done  this  —  as  well  as  for  the  far  more  serious  dilemma 
with  Miss  Silvester  in  which  you  now  stand.  If  I  had  not  in- 
nocently hastened  your  marriage  with  Blanche,  Miss  Silves- 
ter's admirable  letter  would  have  reached  us  in  ample  time  to 
prevent  mischief.  It's  useless  to  dwell  on  that  now.  Cheer 
up,  Arnold  !  I  am  bound  to  show  you  the  way  out  of  the  laby- 
rinth, no  matter  what  the  difficulties  may  be — and,  please  God, 
I  will  do  it !" 

He  pointed  to  a  table  at  the  other  end  of  the  room,  on  which 
writing  raatei'ials  were  placed.  "  I  hate  moving  the  moment 
I  have  had  ray  breakfast,"  he  said.  "  We  won't  go  into  the 
library.     Bring  me  the  pen  and  ink  here." 

"Are  you  going  to  write  to  Miss  Silvester?" 

"That  is  the  question  before  us  which  we  have  not  settled 


350  MAN    AND    WIFE. 

yet.  Before  I  decide,  1  want  to  be  in  possession  of  the  facts — 
down  to  the  smallest  detail  of  what  took  place  between  you 
and  Miss  Silvester  at  the  inn.  There  is  only  one  way  of  get- 
ting at  those  facts.  I  am  going  to  examine  you  as  if  I  had  you 
before  me  in  the  witness-box  in  court," 

With  that  preface,  and  with  Arnold's  letter  from  Baden  in 
his  hand  as  a  brief  to  speak  from.  Sir  Patrick  put  his  questions 
in  clear  and  endless  succession ;  and  Arnold  patiently  and 
faithfully  answered  them  all. 

The  examination  proceeded  uninterruptedly  until  it  had 
reached  that  point  in  the  progress  of  events  at  which  Anne 
had  crushed  GeoiFrey  Delamayn's  letter  in  her  hand,  and  had 
thi'own  it  from  her  indignantly  to  the  other  end  of  the  room. 
There,  for  the  first  time,  Sir  Patrick  dipped  his  pen  in  the  ink, 
apparently  intending  to  take  a  note.  "  Be  very  careful  here," 
he  said;  "I  want  to  know  every  thing  that  you  can  tell  me 
about  that  letter." 

"  The  letter  is  lost,"  said  Arnold. 

"  The  letter  has  been  stolen  by  Bishopriggs,"  returned  Sir  Pat- 
rick, "  and  is  in  the  possession  of  Bishopriggs  at  this  moment." 

"  Why,  you  know  more  about  it  than  I  do  !"  exclaimed  Ar- 
nold. 

"  I  sincerely  hope  not.  I  don't  know  what  was  inside  the 
letter.     Do  you  ?" 

"  Yes.     Part  of  it  at  least." 

"  Part  of  it  ?" 

"  There  were  two  letters  written  on  the  same  sheet  of  paper," 
said  Arnold.  "  One  of  them  was  written  by  Geoffrey  Dela- 
mayn — and  that  is  the  one  I  know  about." 

Sir  Patrick  started.  His  face  brightened  ;  he  made  a  hasty 
note.  "  Go  on  !"  he  said,  eagerly.  "  How  came  the  letters  to 
be  written  on  the  same  sheet?     Explain  that !" 

Arnold  explained  that  Geoffrey,  in  the  absence  of  any  thing 
else  to  write  his  excuses  on  to  Anne,  had  written  to  her  on  the 
fourth  or  blank  page  of  a  letter  which  had  been  addressed  to 
him  by  Anne  herself. 

"  Did  you  read  that  letter  ?"  asked  Sir  Patrick. 

"I  might  have  read  it  if  I  had  liked." 

"And  you  didn't  read  it?" 

"  No." 

"Why?" 

"  Out  of  delicacy." 

Even  Sir  Patrick's  carefully  trained  temper  was  not  proof 
against  this.  "  That  is  the  most  misplaced  act  of  delicacy  I 
ever  heard  of  in  my  life !"  cried  the  old  gentleman,  warmly. 
"  Never  mind  !  it's  useless  to  regret  it  now.  At  any  rate  you 
read  Delamayn's  answer  to  Miss  Silvester's  letter  ?" 


MAN    AND    WIFE.  351 

«  Yes— I  did." 

"  Repeat  it — as  nearly  as  you  can  remember  at  this  distance 
of  time." 

"  It  was  so  short,"  said  Arnold,  "  that  there  is  hardly  any 
thing  to  repeat.  As  well  as  I  remember,  Geoffrey  said  he  was 
called  away  to  London  by  his  father's  illness.  He  told  Miss 
Silvester  to  stop  where  she  was ;  and  he  referred  her  to  me  as 
messenger.     That's  all  I  recollect  of  it  now." 

"  Cudgel  your  brains,  ray  good  fellow !  this  is  very  impor- 
tant. Did  he  make  no  allusion  to  his  engagement  to  marry 
Miss  Silvester  at  Craig  Fernie  ?  Didn't  he  try  to  pacify  her 
by  an  apology  of  some  sort  ?" 

The  question  roused  Arnold's  memory  to  make  another  effort. 

"  Yes,"  he  answered.  "  Geoffrey  said  something  about  being 
true  to  his  engagement,  or  keeping  his  promise,  or  words  to 
that  effect." 

"  You're  sure  of  what  you  say  now  ?" 

"  I  am  certain  of  it." 

Sir  Patrick  made  another  note. 

"  Was  the  letter  signed  ?"  he  asked,  when  he  had  done. 

"  Yes." 

"And  dated?" 

"  Yes."  Arnold's  memory  made  a  second  effort,  after  he  had 
given  his  second  affirmative  answer.  "  Wait  a  little,"  he  said. 
"  I  remember  something  else  about  the  letter.  It  was  not  only 
dated.  The  time  of  day  at  which  it  was  written  was  put  as 
well." 

"  How  came  he  to  do  that  ?" 

"  I  suggested  it.  The  letter  was  so  short  I  felt  ashamed  to 
deliver  it  as  it  stood.  I  told  him  to  put  the  time — so  as  to 
show  her  that  he  was  obliged  to  write  in  a  hurry.  He  put  the 
time  when  the  train  started ;  and  (I  think)  the  time  when  the 
letter  was  written  as  well." 

"And  you  delivered  that  letter  to  Miss  Silvester,  with  your 
own  hand,  as  soon  as  you  saw  her  at  the  inn  ?" 

"  I  did." 

Sir  Patrick  made  a  third  note,  and  pushed  the  paper  away 
from  him  with  an  air  of  supreme  satisfaction. 

"  I  always  suspected  that  lost  letter  to  be  an  important 
document,"  he  said,  "or  Bishopriggs  would  never  have  stolen 
it.  We  must  get  possession  of  it,  Arnold,  at  any  sacrifice. 
The  first  thing  to  be  done  (exactly  as  I  anticipated)  is  to  write 
to  the  Glasgow  lawyer,  and  find  Miss  Silvester." 

"  Wait  a  little  !"  cried  a  voice  at  the  veranda.  "  Don't  for- 
get that  I  have  come  back  from  Baden  to  help  you  !" 

Sir  Patrick  and  Arnold  both  looked  up.     This  time  Blanche 


352  MAN    AND    WIFE. 

had  heard  the  last  words  that  had  passed  between  them.  She 
sat  down  at  the  table  by  Sir  Patrick's  side,  and  laid  her  hand 
caressingly  on  his  shoulder. 

"  You  are  quite  right,  uncle,"  she  said.  "  I  am  suffering 
this  morning  from  the  malady  of  having  nothing  to  do.  Are 
you  going  to  write  to  Anne?     Don't.     Let  me  write  instead." 

Sir  Patrick  declined  to  resign  the  pen. 

"The  person  who  knows  Miss  Silvester's  address,"  he  said, 
'  is  a  lawyer  in  Glasgow.  I  am  going  to  write  to  the  lawyer. 
When  he  sends  us  word  where  she  is — then,  Blanche,  will  be 
the  time  to  employ  your  good  offices  in  winning  back  your 
friend." 

He  drew  the  writing  materials  once  more  within  his  reach, 
and,  suspending  the  remainder  of  Arnold's  examination  for  the 
present,  began  his  letter  to  Mr.  Crum. 

Blanche  pleaded  hard  for  an  occupation  of  some  sort.  "  Can 
nobody  give  me  something  to  do '?"  she  asked.  "  Glasgow  is 
such  a  long  way  off,  and  waiting  is  such  weary  work.  Don't 
sit  there  staring  at  me,  Arnold  !  Can't  you  suggest  some- 
thing ?" 

Arnold,  for  once,  displayed  an  unexpected  readiness  of  re- 
source. 

"  If  you  want  to  write,"  he  said,  "you  owe  Lady  Lundie  a 
letter.  It's  three  days  since  you  heard  from  her  —  and  you 
haven't  answered  her  yet." 

Sir  Patrick  paused,  and  looked  up  quickly  from  his  writing- 
desk. 

"  Lady  Lundie  ?"  he  muttered,  inquiringly. 

"  Yes,"  said  Blanche,  "  It's  quite  true  ;  I  owe  her  a  letter. 
And  of  course  I  ought  to  tell  her  we  have  come  back  to  En- 
gland.    She  will  be  finely  provoked  when  she  hears  why  !" 

The  prospect  of  provoking  Lady  Lundie  seemed  to  I'ousc 
Blanche's  dormant  energies.  She  took  a  sheet  of  her  uncle's 
note-paper,  and  began  writing  her  answer  then  and  there. 

Sir  Patrick  completed  his  communication  to  the  lawyer — af- 
ter a  look  at  Blanche,  which  expressed  any  thing  rather  tlian 
approval  of  her  present  employment.  Having  placed  his  com- 
pleted note  in  the  post-bag,  he  silently  signed  to  Arnold  to  fol- 
low him  into  the  garden.  They  w^ent  out  together,  leaving 
Blanche  absorbed  over  her  letter  to  her  stepmother. 

"  Is  my  wife  doing  any  thing  wrong  ?"  asked  Arnold,  who 
had  noticed  the  look  which  Sir  Patrick  had  cast  on  Blanche. 

"  Your  wife  is  making  mischief  as  fast  as  her  fingers  can 
spread  it." 

Arnold  stared.  "She  must  answer  Lady  Lundie's  letter," 
he  said. 

"  Unquestionably." 


MAN    AND    WIFE,  353 

"And  she  must  tell  Lady  Lundie  we  have  come  back." 

"  I  don't  deny  it/' 

"  Then  what  is  the  objection  to  liur  writing  ?" 

Sir  Patrick  took  a  pinch  of  snuif,  and  pointed  with  his  ivory 
cane  to  the  bees  humming  busily  about  the  flower-beds  in  the 
sunshine  of  the  autumn  morning. 

"I'll  show  you  tlie  objection,"  he  said.  "Suppose  Blanche 
told  one  of  those  inveterately  intrusive  insects  that  the  honey 
in  the  flowers  happens,  through  an  unexpected  accident,  to 
have  come  to  an  end — do  you  think  he  would  take  the  state- 
ment for  granted?  Xo,  He  would  plunge  head-foremost  into 
the  nearest  flower,  and  investigate  it  for  himself." 

"  Well  ?"  said  Arnold. 

"  Well — there  is  Blanche  in  the  breakfast-room  telling  Lady 
Lundie  that  the  bridal  tour  happens,  through  an  unexpected 
accident,  to  have  come  to  an  end.  Do  you  think  Lady  Lundie 
is  the  sort  of  person  to  take  the  statement  for  granted  ?  Noth- 
ing of  the  sort !  Lady  Lundie,  like  the  bee,  will  insist  on  in- 
vestigating for  herself  How  it  will  end,  if  she  discovers  the 
truth  —  and  what  new  complications  she  may  not  introduce 
into  a  matter  which.  Heaven  knows,  is  complicated  enough  al- 
ready-— I  leave  you  to  imagine.  My  poor  powers  of  prevision 
are  not  equal  to  it." 

Before  Arnold  could  answer,  Blanche  joined  them  from  the 
breakfast-room. 

"  I've  done  it,"  she  said.  "  It  was  an  awkward  letter  to 
write — and  it's  a  comfort  to  have  it  over." 

"  You  have  done  it,  my  dear,"  remarked  Sir  Patrick,  quietly. 
"And  it  may  be  a  comfort.     But  it's  not  over." 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?" 

"  I  think,  Blanche,  we  shall  hear  from  your  stepmother  by 
return  of  post." 


CHAPTER  THE  THIRTY-EIGHTH. 

THE    NEWS    FROM    GLASGOW. 

The  letters  to  Lady  Lundie  and  to  Mr.  Crum  having  been 
dispatched  on  Monday,  the  return  of  the  post  might  be  looked 
for  on  Wednesday  afternoon  at  Ham  Farm. 

Sir  Patrick  and  Arnold  held  more  than  one  private  consulta- 
tion, during  the  interval,  on  the  delicate  and  difticult  subject 
of  admitting  Blanche  to  a  knowledge  of  what  had  happened. 
The  wise  elder  advised,  and  the  inexperienced  junior  listened. 
"Think  of  it,"  said  Sir  Patrick;  "and  do  it."  And  Arnold 
thought  of  it — and  left  it  undone. 

23 


354  MAN    AND    WIFE. 

Let  those  who  feel  inclined  to  blame  him  remember  that  he 
had  only  been  married  a  fortnight.  It  is  hard,  surely,  after 
but  two  weeks'  possession  of  your  wife,  to  appear  before  her 
in  the  character  of  an  offender  on  trial  —  and  to  find  that  an 
angel  of  retribution  has  been  thrown  into  the  bargain  by  the 
liberal  destiny  which  bestowed  on  you  the  woman  whom  you 
adore  ! 

They  were  all  three  at  home  on  the  Wednesday  afternoon, 
looking  out  for  the  postman. 

The  correspondence  delivered  included  (exactly  as  Sir  Pat- 
rick had  foreseen)  a  letter  from  Lady  Lundie.  Further  inves- 
tigation, on  the  far  more  interesting  subject  of  the  expected 
news  from  Glasgow,  revealed — nothing.  The  lawyer  had  not 
answered  Sir  Patrick's  inquiry  by  return  of  post. 

"  Is  that  a  bad  sign  ?"  asked  Blanche. 

"  It  is  a  sign  that  something  has  happened,"  answered  her 
uncle.  "  Mr.  Crum  is  possibly  expecting  to  receive  some  spe- 
cial information,  and  is  waiting  on  the  chance  of  being  able  to 
communicate  it.  We  must  hope,  my  dear,  in  to-morrow's 
post." 

"  Open  Lady  Lundie's  letter  in  the  mean  time,"  said  Blanche. 
"Are  you  sure  it  is  for  you — and  not  for  me  ?" 

There  was  no  doubt  about  it.  Her  ladyship's  reply  was 
ominously  addressed  to  her  ladyship's  brother-in-law.  "I 
know  what  that  means,"  said  Blanche,  eying  her  uncle  eager- 
ly while  he  was  reading  the  letter.  "  If  you  mention  Anne's 
name  you  insult  my  stepmother.  I  have  mentioned  it  freely. 
Lady  Lundie  is  mortally  offended  with  me," 

Rash  judgment  of  youth  !  A  lady  who  takes  a  dignified  at- 
titude, in  a  family  emergency,  is  never  mortally  offended — 
she  is  only  deeply  grieved.  Lady  Lundie  took  a  dignified  at- 
titude. "I  well  know,"  wrote  this  estimable  and  Christian 
woman,  "  that  I  have  been  all  along  regarded  in  the  light  of 
an  intruder  by  the  family  connections  of  my  late  beloved  hus- 
band. But  I  was  hardly  prepared  to  find  myself  entirely  shut 
out  from  all  domestic  confidence,  at  a  time  when  some  serious 
domestic  catastrophe  has  but  too  evidently  taken  place.  I 
have  no  desire,  dear  Sir  Patrick,  to  intrude.  Feeling  it,  how- 
ever, to  be  quite  inconsistent  with  a  due  regard  for  my  own 
position  —  after  what  has  happened  —  to  correspond  with 
Blanche,  I  addressed  myself  to  the  head  of  the  family,  purely 
in  the  interests  of  propriety.  Permit  me  to  ask  whether — un- 
der circumstances  which  appear  to  be  serious  enough  to  re- 
quire the  recall  of  my  stepdaughter  and  her  husband  from 
their  wedding-tour — you  think  it  Decent  to  keep  the  widow 
of  the  late  Sir  Thomas  Lundie  entirely  in  the  dark  ?  Pray 
consider  this — not  at  all  out  of  regard  for  Me  ! — but  out  of  re- 


MAN    AND   WIFE.  355 

gard  for  your  own  position  with  Society.  Curiosity  is,  as  you 
know,  foreign  to  my  nature.  But  when  this  dreadful  scandal 
(whatever  it  may  be)  comes  out  —  which,  dear  Sir  Patrick,  it 
can  not  fail  to  do — what  will  the  world  think,  when  it  asks  for 
Lady  Lundie's  opinion,  and  hears  that  Lady  Lundie  knew  noth- 
ing about  it  ?  Whichever  way  you  may  decide,  I  shall  take  no 
oftense.  I  may  possibly  be  wounded — but  that  won't  matter. 
My  little  round  of  duties  will  find  me  still  earnest,  still  cheer- 
ful. And  even  if  you  shut  me  out,  my  best  wishes  will  find 
their  way,  nevertheless,  to  Ham  Farm.  May  I  add — without 
encountering  a  sneer — that  the  prayers  of  a  lonely  woman  are 
oflTered  for  the  welfare  of  all  ?" 

"  Well '?"  said  Blanche. 

Sir  Patrick  folded  up  the  letter,  and  put  it  in  his  pocket. 

"You  have  your  stepmother's  best  wishes, ray  dear."  Hav- 
ing answered  in  those  terms,  he  bowed  to  his  niece  with  his 
best  grace,  and  walked  out  of  the  room. 

"  Do  I  think  it  decent,"  he  repeated  to  himself,  as  he  closed 
the  door,  "  to  leave  the  widow  of  the  late  Sir  Thomas  Lundie 
in  the  dark?  When  a  lady's  temper  is  a  little  ruffled,!  think 
it  more  than  decent,  I  think  it  absolutely  desirable,  to  let  that 
lady  have  the  last  word."  He  went  into  the  library,  and  drop- 
ped his  sister-in-law's  remonstrance  into  a  box,  labeled  "Un- 
answered Letters."  Having  got  rid  of  it  in  that  way,  he 
bummed  his  favorite  little  Scotch  air,  and  put  on  his  hat,  and 
went  out  to  sun  himself  in  the  garden. 

Meanwhile,  Blanche  was  not  quite  satisfied  with  Sir  Patrick's 
reply.  She  appealed  to  her  husband.  "There  is  something 
wrong,"  she  said — "  and  my  uncle  is  hiding  it  from  me." 

Arnold  could  have  desired  no  better  opportunity  than  she 
had  offered  to  him,  in  those  words,  for  making  the  long-defer- 
red disclosure  to  her  of  the  truth.  He  lifted  his  eyes  to 
Blanche's  face.  By  an  unhappy  fatality  she  was  looking  charm- 
ingly that  morning.  How  would  she  look  if  he  told  her  the 
story  of  the  hiding  at  the  inn  ?  Arnold  was  still  in  love  with 
her — and  Arnold  said  nothing. 

The  next  day's  post  brought  not  only  the  anticipated  let- 
ter from  Mr.  Crum,  but  an  unexpected  Glasgow  newspaper  as 
well. 

This  time  Blanche  had  no  reason  to  complain  that  her  uncle 
kept  his  correspondence  a  secret  from  her.  After  reading  the 
lawyer's  letter,  with  an  interest  and  agitation  which  showed 
that  the  contents  had  taken  him  by  surprise,  he  handed  it  to 
Arnold  and  his  niece.  "  Bad  news  there,"  he  said.  "  We  must 
share  it  together." 

After  acknowledging  the  receipt  of  Sir  Patrick's  letter  of  in- 


856  MAN    AND    WIFK 

quiry,  Mr.  Crum  began  by  stating  all  that  he  knew  of  Miss  Sil- 
vester's movements — dating  from  the  time  when  she  bad  left 
the  Sheep's  Head  Hotel.  About  a  fortnight  since  he  had  re- 
ceived a  letter  from  her  informing  him  that  she  had  found  a 
suitable  place  of  residence  in  a  village  near  Glasgow.  Feeling 
a  strong  interest  in  Miss  Silvester,  Mr.  Crum  had  visited  her 
some  few  days  afterward.  He  had  satisfied  himself  that  she 
was  lodging  with  respectable  people,  and  was  as  comfortably 
situated  as  circumstances  would  permit.  For  a  week  more  he 
had  heard  nothing  from  the  lady.  At  the  expiration  of  that 
time  he  had  received  a  letter  from  her,  telling  him  that  she 
had  read  something  in  a  Glasgow  newspaj^er,  of  that  day's 
date,  which  seriously  concerned  herself,  and  which  would 
oblige  her  to  travel  northward  immediately  as  fast  as  her 
strength  would  permit.  At  a  later  period,  when  she  would  be 
more  certain  of  her  own  movements,  she  engaged  to  write 
again,  and  let  Mr.  Crum  know  where  he  might  communicate 
with  her  if  necessary.  In  the  mean  time,  she  could  only  thank 
him  for  his  kindness,  and  beg  him  to  take  care  of  any  letters 
or  messages  which  might  be  left  for  her.  Since  the  receipt  of 
this  communication  the  lawyer  had  heard  nothing  further. 
He  had  waited  for  the  morning's  post  in  the  hope  of  being 
able  to  repoi't  that  he  had  received  some  further  intelligence. 
The  hope  had  not  been  realized.  He  had  now  stated  all  that 
he  knew  himself  thus  far — and  he  had  forwarded  a  copy  of  the 
newspaper  alluded  to  by  Miss  Silvester,  on  the  chance  that  an 
examination  of  it  by  Sir  Patrick  might  possibly  lead  to  further 
discoveries.  In  conclusion,  he  pledged  himself  to  write  again 
the  moment  he  had  any  information  to  send. 

Blanche  snatched  up  the  newspaper,  and  opened  it.  "  Let 
me  look!"  she  said.  "I  can  find  what  Anne  saw  here,  if  any 
body  can  !" 

She  ran  her  eye  eagerly  over  column  after  column  and  page 
after  page,  and  dropped  the  newspaper  on  her  lap  with  a  ges- 
ture of  despair. 

"  Nothing !"  she  exclaimed.  "  Nothing  anywhere,  that  I 
can  see,  to  interest  Anne.  Nothing  to  interest  any  body — ex- 
cept Lady  Lundie,"  she  went  on,  brushing  the  newspaper  oiF 
her  lap.  "It  turns  out  to  be  all  true,  Arnold,  at  Swanhaven. 
Geoftrey  Delamayn  is  going  to  marry  Mrs.  Glenarm." 

"  What !"  cried  Arnold  ;  the  idea  instantly  flashing  on  him 
that  this  was  the  news  which  Anne  had  seen. 

Sir  Patrick  gave  him  a  warning  look,  and  picked  up  the 
newspaper  from  the  floor. 

"  I  may  as  well  run  through  it,  Blanche,  and  make  quite  sure 
that  you  have  missed  nothing,"  he  said. 

The  report  to  which  Blanche  had  referred  was  among  the 


MAN    ANI)    WIFE,  357 

paragraphs  arranged  under  the  heading  of  "  Fashionable 
News."  "A  matrimonial  alliance"  (the  Glasgow  journal  an- 
nounced) "  was  in  prospect  between  the  Honorable  Geoffrey 
Delamayn  and  the  lovely  and  accomplished  relict  of  the  late 
Matthew  Glenarm,  Esq.,  formerly  Miss  Newenden."  The  mar- 
riage would,  in  all  probability,  "  be  solemnized  in  Scotland,  be- 
fore the  end  of  the  present  autumn  ;"  and  the  wedding  break- 
fast, it  was  whispered,  "  would  collect  a  large  and  fashionable 
party  at  Swanhaven  Lodge." 

Sir  Patrick  handed  the  new^spaper  silently  to  Arnold.  It 
was  plain  to  any  one  who  knew  Anne  Silvester's  story  that 
those  were  the  words  which  had  found  their  fatal  way  to  her 
in  her  place  of  rest.  The  inference  that  followed  seemed  to  be 
hardly  less  clear.  But  one  intelligible  object,  in  the  opinion 
of  Sir  Patrick,  could  be  at  the  end  of  her  journey  to  the  North. 
The  deserted  woman  had  rallied  the  last  relics  of  her  old  ener- 
gy— and  had  devoted  herself  to  the  desperate  purpose  of  stop- 
ping the  marriage  of  Mrs.  Glenarm. 

Blanche  was  the  first  to  break  the  silence. 

"  It  seems  like  a  fatality,"  she  said.     "  Perpetual  failure ! 
Perpetual  disappointment !     Are  Anne  and  I  doomed  never  to 
1  meet  again  ?" 

She  looked  at  her  uncle.  Sir  Patrick  showed  none  of  his 
I  customary  cheerfulness  in  the  face  of  disaster. 

"  She  has  promised  to  write  to  Mr.  Crum,"  he  said.  "  And 
'Mr.  Crum  has  promised  to  let  us  know  when  he  hears  from 
iher.  That  is  the  only  prospect  before  us.  We  must  accept 
lit  as  resignedly  as  we  can." 

Blanche  wandered  out  listlessly  among  the  flowers  in  the  con- 
servatory. Sir  Patrick  made  no  secret  of  the  impression  pro- 
duced upon  him  by  Mr.  Crum's  letter,  when  he  and  Arnold  were 
left  alone. 

"There  is  no  denying,"  he  said,  "  that  matters  have  taken  a 
.very  serious  turn.  My  plans  and  calculations  are  all  thrown 
;out.  It  is  impossible  to  foresee  what  new  mischief  may  not 
come  of  it,  if  those  two  women  meet ;  or  what  desperate  act 
IDelamayn  may  not  commit,  if  he  finds  himself  driven  to  the 
•wall.  As  things  are,  I  own  frankly  I  don't  know  what  to  do 
next.  A  great  light  of  the  Presbyterian  Church,"  he  added, 
with  a  momentary  outbreak  of  his  whimsical  humor,  "  once 
Ideclared,  in  my  hearing,  that  the  invention  of  printing  was 
eothing  more  nor  less  than  a  proof  of  the  intellectual  activity 
of  the  Devil.  Upon  my  honor,  I  feel  for  the  first  time  in  my 
life  inclined  to  agree  with  him." 

He  mechanically  took  up  the  Glasgow  journal,  which  Ar- 
jaold  had  laid  aside,  while  he  spoke. 
\    "  What's  this !"  he  exclaimed,  ae  a  name  caught  his  eye  in 


358  MAN    AND    AVIFE, 

the  first  line  of  the  newspaper  at  which  he  happened  to  look. 
"  Mrs.  Glenarm  again  !  Are  they  turning  the  iron-master's 
widow  into  a  public  cliaracter  ?" 

There  the  name  of  the  widow  was,  unquestionably;  figuring 
for  the  second  time  in  type,  in  a  letter  of  the  gossiping  sort, 
supplied  by  an  "  Occasional  Correspondent,"  and  distinguish- 
ed by  the  title  of  "  Sayings  and  Doings  in  the  North."  After 
tattling  pleasantly  of  the  prospects  of  the  shooting  season,  of 
the  fashions  from  Paris,  of  an  accident  to  a  tourist,  and  of  a 
scandal  in  the  Scottish  Kirk,  the  writer  proceeded  to  the  nar- 
rative of  a  case  of  interest,  relating  to  a  marriage  in  the  sphere 
known  (in  the  language  of  footmen)  as  the  sphere  of  "  high 
life." 

Considerable  sensation  (the  correspondent  announced)  had 
been  caused  in  Perth  and  its  neighborhood,  by  the  exposure 
of  an  anonymous  attempt  at  extortion,  of  which  a  lady  of  dis- 
tinction had  lately  been  made  the  object.  As  her  name  had 
already  been  publicly  mentioned  in  an  application  to  the  mag- 
istrates, there  could  be  no  impropriety  in  stating  that  the  lady 
in  question  was  Mrs.  Glenarm,  whose  approaching  union  with 
the  Honorable  Geofii'ey  Delamayu  was  alluded  to  in  another 
column  of  the  journal. 

Mrs.  Glenarm  had,  it  appeared,  received  an  anonymous  let- 
ter, on  the  first  day  of  her  arrival  as  guest  at  the  house  of  a 
friend,  residing  in  the  neighborhood  of  Perth.  The  letter 
warned  her  that  there  was  an  obstacle,  of  which  she  was  her- 
self probably  not  aware,  in  the  way  of  her  projected  marriage 
with  Mr.  Geofii-ey  Delamayn.  That  gentleman  had  seriously 
compromised  himself  with  another  lady ;  and  the  lady  would 
oppose  his  marriage  to  Mrs.  Glenarm,  with  proof  in  writing  to 
produce  in  support  of  her  claim.  The  proof  was  contained  in 
two  letters  exchanged  between  the  parties,  and  signed  by  their 
names ;  and  the  correspondence  was  placed  at  Mrs.  Glenarm's 
disposal,  on  two  conditions,  as  follows  : 

First,  that  she  should  offer  a  sufficiently  liberal  price  to  in- 
duce the  present  possessor  of  the  letters  to  part  with  them. 
Secondly,  that  she  should  consent  to  adopt  such  a  method  of 
paying  the  money  as  should  satisfy  the  person  that  he  was  in 
no  danger  of  finding  himself  brought  within  reach  of  the  law. 
The  answer  to  these  two  proposals  was  directed  to  be  made 
through  the  medium  of  an  advertisement  in  the  local  newspa- 
per— distinguished  by  this  address,  "  To  a  Friend  in  the  Dark." 

Cei-tain  turns  of  expression,  and  one  or  two  mistakes  in 
spelling,  pointed  to  this  insolent  letter  as  being,  in  all  proba- 
bility, the  production  of  a  Scotchman,  in  the  lower  ranks  of 
life.  Mrs.  Glenarm  had  at  once  shown  it  to  her  nearest  rela- 
tive, Captain  Newenden.     The  captain  had  sought  legal  advice 


MAN    AND   WIFE.  350 

in  Perth.  It  had  been  decided,  after  due  consideration,  to  in- 
sert the  advertisement  demanded,  and  to  take  measures  to  en- 
trap the  writer  of  the  letter  into  revealing  himself — without, 
it  is  needless  to  add,  allowing  the  fellow  really  to  profit  by  his 
attempted  act  of  extortion. 

The  cunning  of  the  "Friend  in  the  Dark"  (whoever  he 
might  be)  had,  on  trying  the  proposed  experiment,  proved  to 
be  more  than  a  match  for  the  lawyers.  He  had  sucessfullj 
eluded  not  only  the  snare  first  set  for  him,  but  others  subse- 
quently laid.  A  second,  and  a  third,  anonymous  letter,  one 
more  impudent  than  the  other,  had  been  received  by  Mrs. 
Glenarm,  assuring  that  lady  and  the  friends  who  were  acting 
for  her,  that  they  were  only  wasting  time,  and  raising  the 
price  which  would  be  asked  for  the  correspondence,  by  the 
course  they  were  taking.  Captain  Newenden  had  thereupon, 
in  default  of  knowing  what  other  course  to  pursue,  appealed 
publicly  to  the  city  magistrates;  and  a  reward  had  been  oiFer- 
ed,  under  the  sanction  of  the  municipal  authorities,  for  the  dis- 
covery of  the  man.  This  proceeding  also  having  proved  quite 
fruitless,  it  was  understood  that  the  captain  had  arranged, 
with  the  concurrence  of  his  English  solicitors,  to  place  the  mat- 
ter in  the  hands  of  an  experienced  officer  of  the  London  police. 

Here,  so  far  as  the  newspaper  correspondent  was  aware,  the 
affair  rested  for  the  present. 

It  was  only  necessary  to  add,  that  Mrs.  Glenarm  had  left 
the  neighborhood  of  Perth,  in  order  to  escape  further  annoy- 
ance ;  and  had  placed  herself  under  the  protection  of  friends 
in  another  part  of  the  county.  Mr.  Geoffrey  Delamayn,  whose 
fair  fame  had  been  assailed  (it  was  needless,  the  correspondent 
added  in  parenthesis,  to  say  how  groundlessly),  was  under- 
stood to  have  expressed,  not  only  the  indignation  natural  un- 
der the  circumstances,  but  also  his  extreme  regret  at  not  find- 
ing himself  in  a  position  to  aid  Captain  Newenden's  efforts  to 
bring  the  anonymous  slanderer  to  justice.  The  honorable 
gentleman  was,  as  the  sporting  public  were  well  aware,  then 
in  course  of  strict  training  for  his  fortlicoming  appearance  at 
the  Fulham  Foot-race.  So  important  was  it  considered  that 
his  mind  should  not  be  harassed  by  annoj^ances,  in  his  pres- 
ent responsible  position,  that  his  trainer  and  his  principal 
backers  had  thought  it  desirable  to  hasten  his  removal  to  the 
neighborhood  of  Fulham — where  the  exercises  which  were  to 
prepare  him  for  the  race  were  now  being  continued  on  the 
spot. 

"The  mystery  seems  to  thicken,"  said  Arnold. 
"  Quite  the  contrary,"  returned  Sir  Patrick,  briskly.     "  Th<i 
mystery  is  clearing  fast  —  thanks  to  the  Glasgow  newspaper. 


360  MAN    AND    WIFE, 

I  shall  be  spared  the  trouble  of  dealing  with  Bishopriggs  for 
the  stolen  letter.  Miss  Silvester  has  gone  to  Perth,  to  recover 
her  correspondence  with  Geoffrey  Delamayn," 

"Do  you  think  she  would  recognize  it,"  said  Arnold,  point- 
ing to  the  newspaper,  "in  the  account  given  of  it  here?" 

"  Certainly  !  And  she  could  hardly  fail,  in  my  opinion,  to 
get  a  step  farther  than  that.  Unless  I  am  entirely  mistaken, 
the  authorship  of  the  anonymous  letters  has  not  mystified  Aer." 

"How  could  she  guess  at  that?" 

"  In  this  way,  as  I  think.  Whatever  she  may  have  previ- 
ously thought,  she  must  suspect,  by  this  time,  that  the  missing 
correspondence  has  been  stolen,  and  not  lost.  Now,  there  are 
only  two  persons  whom  she  can  think  of  as  probably  guilty 
of  the  theft — Mrs,  Inchbare  or  Bishopriggs,  The  newspaper 
description  of  the  style  of  the  anonymous  letters  declares  it  to 
be  the  style  of  a  Scotchman  in  the  lower  ranks  of  life — in  oth- 
er words,  points  plainly  to  Bishopriggs,  You  see  that?  Very 
well.  Now  suppose  she  recovers  the  stolen  property.  What 
is  likely  to  happen  then  ?  She  will  be  more  or  less  than  wom- 
an if  she  doesn't  make  her  way  next,  provided  with  her  proofs 
in  writing,  to  Mrs.  Glenarm.  She  may  innocently  help,  or  she 
may  innocently  frustrate,  the  end  we  have  in  view  —  either 
way,  our  course  is  clear  before  us  again.  Our  interest  in  com- 
municating with  Miss  Silvester  remains  precisely  the  same  in- 
terest that  it  was  before  we  received  the  Glasgow  newspaper, 
I  propose  to  wait  till  Sunday,  on  the  chance  that  Mr,  Crum 
may  write  again.  If  we  don't  hear  from  him,  I  shall  start  for 
Scotland  on  Monday  morning,  and  take  my  chance  of  finding 
my  way  to  Miss  Silvester,  through  Mrs,  Glenarm." 

"  Leaving  me  behind  ?" 

"  Leaving  you  behind.  Somebody  must  stay  with  Blanche, 
After  having  only  been  a  fortnight  married,  must  I  remind  you 
of  that  ?" 

"  Don't  you  think  Mr,  Crum  will  write  before  Monday  ?" 

"  It  will  be  such  a  fortunate  circumstance  for  us,  if  he  does 
write,  that  I  don't  venture  to  anticipate  it." 

"  You  are  down  on  our  luck,  sir." 

"I  detest  slang,  Arnold.  But  slang,  I  own,  expresses  my 
state  of  mind,  in  this  instance,  with  an  accuracy  which  almost 
reconciles  me  to  the  use  of  it — for  once  in  a  way," 

"Every  body's  luck  turns  sooner  or  later,"  persisted  Arnold. 
"  I  can't  help  thinking  our  luck  is  on  the  turn  at  last.  Would 
you  mind  taking  a  bet.  Sir  Patrick  ?" 

"  Apply  at  the  stables,  I  leave  betting,  as  I  leave  cleaning 
the  horses,  to  my  groom," 

With  that  crabbed  answer  he  closed  the  conversation  for  tLe 
day. 


MAN    AND    WIFE.  361 

'The  hours  passed,  and  time  brought  the  post  again  in  due 
course — and  the  post  decided  in  Arnold's  favor  !  Sir  Patrick's 
want  of  confidence  in  the  favoring  patronage  of  Fortune  was 
practically  rebuked  by  the  arrival  of  a  second  letter  from  the 
Glasgow  lawyer  on  the  next  day. 

"  I  have  the  pleasure  of  announcing "  (Mr.  Crum  wrote) 
"  that  I  have  heard  from  Miss  Silvester,  by  the  next  postal  de- 
livery ensuing,  after  I  had  dispatched  my  letter  to  Ham  Farm. 
She  writes,  very  briefly,  to  inform  me  that  she  has  decided  on 
establishing  her  next  place  of  residence  in  London.  The  rea- 
son assigned  for  taking  this  step — which  she  certainly  did  not 
contemplate  when  I  last  saw  her — is,  that  she  finds  herself  ap- 
proaching the  end  of  her  pecuniary  resources.  Having  already 
decided  on  adopting,  as  a  means  of  living,  the  calling  of  a  con- 
cert-singer, she  has  arranged  to  place  her  interests  in  the  hands 
of  an  old  friend  of  her  late  mother  (who  appears  to  have  be- 
longed also  to  the  musical  profession) :  a  dramatic  and  musical 
agent  long  established  in  the  metropolis,  and  well  known  to 
her  as  a  trustworthy  and  respectable  man.  She  sends  me  the 
name  and  address  of  this  person — a  copy  of  which  you  will 
find  on  the  inclosed  slip  of  paper — in  the  event  of  my  having 
occasion  to  write  to  her,  before  she  is  settled  in  London,  This 
is  the  whole  substance  of  her  letter.  I  have  only  to  add,  that 
it  does  not  contain  the  slightest  allusion  to  the  nature  of  the 
errand  on  which  she  left  Glasgow." 

Sir  Patrick  happened  to  be  alone  when  he  opened  Mr.  Crum's 
letter. 

His  first  proceeding,  after  reading  it,  was  to  consult  the  rail- 
way time-table  hanging  in  the  hall.  Having  done  this,  he  re- 
turned to  the  library — wrote  a  short  note  of  inquiry,  addressed 
to  the  musical  agent — and  rang  the  bell. 

"Miss  Silvester  is  expected  in  London,  Duncan.  I  want  a 
discreet  person  to  communicate  with  her.  You  are  the  per- 
son." 

Duncan  bowed.     Sir  Patrick  handed  him  the  note. 

"If  you  start  at  once  you  will  be  in  time  to  catch  the  train. 
Go  to  that  address,  and  inquire  for  Miss  Silvester.  If  she  has 
arrived,  give  her  ray  compliments,  and  say  I  will  have  the  hon- 
or of  calling  on  her  (on  Mr.  Brink  worth's  behalf)  at  the  earli- 
est date  which  she  may  find  it  convenient  to  appoint.  Be 
quick  about  it — and  you  will  have  time  to  get  back  before  the 
last  train.  Have  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Brinkworth  returned  from  their 
drive  ?" 

"  No,  Sir  Patrick." 

Pending  the  return  of  Arnold  and  Blanche,  Sir  Patrick  loot 
ed  at  Ml'.  Crura"'s  letter  for  the  second  time. 


362  MA?f    A^D   WIFE. 

He  was  not  quite  satisfied  that  the  pecuniary  motive  was 
really  the  motive  at  the  bottom  of  Anne's  journey  south.  Re- 
membering that  Geoffrey's  trainers  had  removed  him  to  the 
neighborhood  of  London,  he  was  inclined  to  doubt  whether 
some  serious  quarrel  had  not  taken  place  between  Anne  and 
Mrs.  Glenarm — and  whether  some  direct  appeal  to  Geoffrey 
himself  might  not  be  in  contemplation  as  the  result.  In  that 
event,  Sir  Patrick's  advice  and  assistance  would  be  placed, 
without  scruple,  at  Miss  Silvester's  disposal.  By  asserting  her 
claim,  in  opposition  to  tlie  claim  of  Mrs.  Glenarm,  she  was  also 
asserting  herself  to  be  an  unmarried  woman,  and  was  thus  serv- 
ing Blanche's  interests  as  well  as  her  own.  "  I  owe  it  to  Blanche 
to  help  lier,"  thought  Sir  Patrick.  "  And  I  owe  it  to  myself 
to  bring  Geoffrey  Delamayn  to  a  day  of  reckoning  if  I  can." 

The  barking  of  the  dogs  in  the  yard  announced  the  return 
of  the  carriage.  Sir  Patrick  went  out  to  meet  Arnold  and 
Blanche  at  the  gate,  and  tell  them  the  news. 

Punctual  to  the  time  at  which  he  was  expected,  the  discreet 
Duncan  re-appeared  with  a  note  from  the  musical  agent. 

Miss  Silvester  had  not  yet  reached  London  ;  but  she  was 
expected  to  arrive  not  later  than  Tuesday  in  the  ensuing  week. 
The  agent  had  already  been  favored  with  her  instructions  to 
pay  the  strictest  attention  to  any  commands  received  from  Sir 
Patrick  Lundie.  He  would  take  care  that  Sir  Patrick's  mes- 
sage should  be  given  to  Miss  Silvester  as  soon  as  she  arrived. 

At  last,  then,  there  was  liews  to  be  relied  on  !  At  last  there 
was  a  prospect  of  seeing  her !  Blanche  was  radiant  with  hap- 
piness. Arnold  was  in  high  spirits  for  the  first  time  since  his 
return  from  Baden. 

Sir  Patrick  tried  hard  to  catch  the  infection  of  gayety  from 
his  young  friends  ;  but,  to  his  own  surprise,  not  less  than  to 
theirs,  the  effort  proved  fruitless.  With  the  tide  of  events 
turning  decidedly  in  his  favor — relieved  of  the  necessity  of 
taking  a  doubtful  journey  to  Scotland  ;  assured  of  obtaining 
his  interview  with  Anne  in  a  few  days'  time — he  was  out  of 
spirits  all  through  the  evening. 

"  Still  down  on  our  luck  !"  exclaimed  Arnold,  as  he  and  his 
host  finished  their  last  game  of  billiards,  and  parted  for  the 
night.  "  Surely,  we  couldn't  wish  for  a  more  promising  pros- 
pect than  oicr  prospect  next  week  ?" 

Sir  Patrick  laid  his  hand  on  Arnold's  shoulder. 

"Let  us  look  indulgently  together," he  said,  in  his  whimsi- 
cally grave  way,  "  at  the  humiliating  spectacle  of  an  old  man's 
folly.  I  feel  at  this  moment,  Arnold,  as  if  I  would  give  every 
thing  that  I  possess  in  the  world  to  have  passed  over  next 
week,  and  to  be  landed  safely  in  the  time  beyond  it." 


MAN   AND   WIFB.  363 

"  But  why  ?" 

"  There  is  the  folly  !  I  can't  tell  why.  With  every  reason 
to  be  in  better  spirits  than  usual,  I  am  unaccountably,  irra- 
tionally, invincibly  depressed.  What  are  we  to  conclude  from 
that  ?  Am  I  the  object  of  a  supernatural  warning  of  misfor- 
tune to  come  ?  Or  am  I  the  object  of  a  temporary  derange- 
ment of  the  functions  of  the  liver?  There  is  the  question. 
Who  is  to  decide  it  ?  How  contemptible  is  humanity,  Arnold, 
rightly  understood  !  Give  me  my  candle,  and  let's  hope  it's 
the  liver." 


EIGHTH  SCENE. — THE  PANTR Y. 
CHAPTER  THE  THIRTY-NINTH. 

ANNE    WINS    A    VICTORY. 

On  a  certain  evening  in  the  month  of  September  (at  that 
period  of  the  month  when  Arnold  and  Blanche  were  traveling 
back  from  Baden  to  Ham  Farm)  an  ancient  man — with  one 
eye  filmy  and  blind,  and  one  eye  moist  and  merry — sat  alone 
in  the  pantry  of  the  Harp  of  Scotland  Inn,  Perth,  pounding  the 
sugar  softly  in  a  glass  of  whisky-punch.  He  has  hitherto  been 
personally  distinguished  in  these  pages  as  the  self-appointed 
father  of  Anne  Silvester  and  the  humble  servant  of  Blanche  at 
the  dance  at  Swanhaven  Lodge.  He  now  dawns  on  the  view 
in  amicable  relations  with  a  tliird  lady,  and  assumes  the  mys- 
tic character  of  Mrs.  Glenarm's  "  Friend  in  the  Dark." 

Arriving  in  Perth  the  day  after  the  festivities  at  Swanhaven, 
Bishopriggs  proceeded  to  the  Harp  of  Scotland — at  which  es- 
tablishment for  the  reception  of  travelers  he  possessed  the  ad- 
vantage of  being  known  to  the  landlord  as  Mrs,  Inchbare's 
right-hand  man,  and  of  standing  high  on  the  head-waiter's  list 
of  old  and  intimate  friends. 

Inquiring  for  the  waiter  first  by  the  name  of  Thomas  (other- 
wise Tammy)  Pennyquick,  Bishopriggs  found  his  friend  in  soi'e 
distress  of  body  and  mind.  Contending  vainly  against  the 
disabling  advances  of  rheumatism,  Thomas  Pennyquick  ruefully 
contemplated  the  prospect  of  being  laid  up  at  home  by  a  long 
illness  —  with  a  wife  and  children  to  support,  and  with  the 
emoluments  attached  to  his  position  passing  into  the  pockets 
of  the  first  stranger  who  could  be  found  to  occupy  his  place 
at  the  inn. 

Hearing  this  doleful  story,  Bishopriggs  cunningly  saw  his 
way  to  serving  his  own  private  interests  by  performing  the 
part  of  Thomas  Pennyquick's  generous  and  devoted  friend. 


364  MAN    AND    AVIFE. 

He  forthwith  offered  to  fill  the  place,  without  taking  the 
emoluments  of  the  invalided  head-waiter — on  the  understand- 
ing, as  a  matter  of  course,  that  the  landlord  consented  to  board 
and  lodge  him  free  of  expense  at  the  inn.  The  landlord  hav- 
ing readily  accepted  this  condition,  Thomas  Pennyquick  re- 
tired to  the  bosom  of  his  family.  And  there  was  Bishopriggs, 
doubly  secure  behind  a  respectable  position  and  a  virtuous 
action,  against  all  likelihood  of  suspicion  falling  on  him,  as  a 
stranger  in  Perth  —  in  the  event  of  his  correspondence  with 
Mrs.  Glenarm  being  made  the  object  of  legal  investigation  on 
the  part  of  her  friends  ! 

Having  opened  the  campaign  in  this  masterly  manner,  the 
same  sagacious  foresight  had  distinguished  the  operations  of 
Bishopriggs  throughout. 

His  correspondence  with  Mrs.  Glenarm  was  invariably  writ- 
ten with  the  left  hand — the  writing  thus  produced,  defying 
detection,  in  all  cases,  as  bearing  no  resemblance  of  character 
whatever  to  writing  produced  by  persons  who  habitually  use 
the  other  hand.  A  no  less  far-sighted  cunning  distinguished 
his  proceedings  in  answering  the  advertisements  which  the 
lawyers  duly  inserted  in  the  newspaper.  He  appointed  hours 
at  which  he  was  employed  on  business-errands  for  the  inn,  and 
places  which  lay  on  the  way  to  those  errands,  for  his  meetings 
with  Mrs.  Glenarm's  representatives  :  a  pass-word  being  de- 
termined on,  as  usual  in  such  cases,  by  exchanging  which  the 
persons  concerned  could  discover  each  other.  However  care- 
fully the  lawyers  might  set  the  snare — whether  they  had  their 
necessary  "  witness "  disguised  as  an  artist  sketching  in  the 
neighborhood,  or  as  an  old  woman  selling  fruit,  or  what  not — • 
the  wary  eye  of  Bishopriggs  detected  it.  He  left  the  pass- word 
unspoken  ;  he  went  liis  way  on  his  errand  ;  he  was  followed 
on  suspicion  ;  and  he  was  discovered  to  be  only  "  a  respecta- 
ble person,"  charged  %vith  a  message  by  the  landlord  of  the 
Harp  of  Scotland  Inn. 

To  a  man  intrenched  behind  such  precautions  as  these,  the 
chance  of  being  detected  might  well  be  reckoned  among  the 
last  of  all  the  chances  that  could  possibly  happen. 

Discovery  was,  nevertheless,  advancing  on  Bishopriggs  from 
a  quarter  which  had  not  been  included  in  his  calculations. 
Anne  Silvester  was  in  Perth ;  forewarned  by  the  newspaper 
(as  Sir  Patrick  had  guessed)  that  the  letters  offei'ed  to  Mrs. 
Glenarm  were  the  letters  between  Geoffrey  and  herself,  which 
she  had  lost  at  Craig  Fernie,  and  bent  on  clearing  up  the  sus 
picion  which  pointed  to  Bishopriggs  as  the  person  who  was  try- 
ing to  turn  the  correspondence  to  pecuniary  account.  The  in- 
quiries made  for  him,  at  Anne's  request,  as  soon  as  she  arrived 
in  the  town,  openly  described  his  name,  and  his  former  posi- 


MAN   AND  WirE.  367 

tion  as  head  waiter  at  Craig  Fernie — and  thus  led  easil)'  to  the 
discovery  of  him,  in  his  publicly  avowed  character  of  Thomas 
Pennyquick's  devoted  friend.  Toward  evening,  on  the  day 
after  she  reached  Perth,  the  news  came  to  Anne  that  Bishop- 
rio-crs  was  in  service  at  the  inn  known  as  the  Harp  of  Scotland. 
The  landlord  of  the  hotel  at  which  she  was  staying  inquired 
whether  he  should  send  a  message  for  her.  She  answered, 
"  No,  I  will  take  my  message  myself.  All  I  want  is  a  person 
to  show  me  the  way  to  the  inn." 

Secluded  in  the  solitude  of  the  head-waiter's  pantry,  Bishop- 
riggs  sat  peacefully  melting  the  sugar  in  his  whisky-punch. 

It  was  the  hour  of  the  evening  at  which  a  period  of  tranquil- 
lity generally  occurred  before  what  was  called  the  "  night  bus- 
iness "  of  the  house  began.  Bishopriggs  was  accustomed  to 
drink  and  meditate  daily  in  this  interval  of  repose.  He  tasted 
the  punch,  and  smiled  contentedly  as  he  set  down  his  glass. 
The  prospect  before  him  looked  fairly  enough.  He  had  out- 
witted the  lawyers  in  the  preliminary  negotiations  thus  far. 
All  that  was  needful  now  was  to  wait  till  the  terror  of  a  pub- 
lic scandal  (sustained  by  occasional  letters  from  her  "  PViend 
in  the  Dark")  had  its  due  effect  on  Mrs.  Glenarm,  and  hurried 
her  into  paying  the  purchase-money  for  the  correspondence 
with  her  own  hand.  "  Let  it  breed  in  the  brain,"  he  thought, 
"  and  the  siller  will  soon  come  out  o'  the  purse." 

His  reflections  were  interrupted  by  the  appearance  of  a  slov- 
enly maid-servant,  with  a  cotton  handkerchief  tied  round  her 
head,  and  an  uncleaned  saucepan  in  her  hand. 

"  Eh,  Maister  Bishopriggs,"  cried  the  girl,  "  here's  a  braw 
young  leddy  speerin'  for  ye  by  yer  ain  name  at  the  door." 

"  A  leddy  ?"  repeated  Bishopriggs,  with  a  look  of  virtuous 
disgust.  "Ye  donnert  ne'er-do-weel,  do  you  come  to  a  decent, 
'sponsible  man  like  me,  wi'  sic  a  Cyprian  overture  as  that? 
What  d'ye  tak'  me  for?  Mark  Antony  that  lost  the  world  for 
love  (the  mair  fule  he  !)  ?  or  Don  Jovanny  that  counted  his 
concubines  by  hundreds,  like  the  blessed  Solomon  himself? 
Awa'  wi'  ye  to  yer  pots  and  pans ;  and  bid  the  wandering  Ve- 
nus that  sent  ye  go  spin  !" 

Before  the  girl  could  answer  she  was  gently  pulled  aside 
from  the  door-way,  and  Bishopriggs,  thunderstruck,  saw  Anne 
Silvester  standing  in  her  place. 

"You  had  better  tell  the  servant  I  am  no  stranger  to  you," 
said  Anne,  looking  toward  the  kitchen-maid,  who  stood  in  the 
passage  staring  at  her  in  stolid  amazement. 

"  My  ain  sister's  child !"  cried  Bishopriggs,  lying  with  his 
customary  readiness.  "Go  yer  ways,  Maggie.  The  bonny 
lassie's  my  ain  kith  and  kin.     The  tongue  o'  scandal,  I  trow, 


368  MAN    AND    WIFE. 

has  naething  to  say  against  that. — Lord  save  ub  and  guide  us !" 
he  added  in  another  tone,  as  the  girl  closed  the  door  on  them, 
"  what  brings  ye  here  ?" 

"  I  have  something  to  say  to  you.  I  am  not  very  well ;  I 
must  wait  a  little  first.     Give  me  a  chair." 

Bishopriggs  obeyed  in  silence.  His  one  available  eye  rested 
on  Anne,  as  he  produced  the  chair,  with  an  uneasy  and  suspi- 
cious attention.  "  I'm  wanting  to  know  one  thing,"  he  said. 
"  By  what  meeraiculous  means,  young  madam,  do  ye  happen 
to  ha'  fund  yer  way  to  this  inn  ?" 

Anne  told  him  how  her  inquiries  had  been  made,  and  what 
the  result  had  been,  plainly  and  frankly.  The  clouded  face  of 
Bishopriggs  began  to  clear  again. 

"  Hech  !  hech  !"  he  exclaimed,  recovering  all  his  native  im- 
pudence, "  I  hae  had  occasion  to  remark  already,  to  anither 
leddy  than  yersel',  that  it's  seeraply  mairvelous  hoo  a  man's 
ain  gude  deeds  find  him  oot  in  this  lower  warld  o'  ours.  I  hae 
dune  a  gude  deed  by  pure  Tammy  Pennyquick,  and  here's  a' 
Pairth  ringing  wi'  the  report  o'  it ;  and  Sawmuel  Bishopriggs 
sae  weel  known  that  ony  stranger  has  only  to  ask,  and  find 
him.  Understand,  I  beseech  ye,  that  it's  no  hand  o'  mine  that 
pets  this  new  feather  in  my  cap.  As  a  gude  Calvinist,  my 
Saul's  clear  o'  the  smallest  figment  o'  belief  in  Warks.  When 
I  look  at  my  ain  celeebrity  I  joost  ask,  as  the  Psawmist  asked 
before  me,  '  Why  do  the  heathen  rage,  and  the  people  imagine 
a  vain  thing?'  It  seems  ye've  something  to  say  to  me,"  he 
added,  suddenly  reverting  to  the  object  of  Anne's  visit.  "  Is 
it  humanly  possible  that  ye  can  ha'  come  a'  the  way  to  Pairth 
for  naething  but  that." 

The  expression  of  suspicion  began  to  show  itself  again  in  his 
face.  Concealing  as  she  best  might  the  disgust  that  he  m- 
spired  in  her,  Anne  stated  her  errand  in  the  most  direct  man- 
ner, and  in  the  fewest  possible  words. 

"  I  have  come  here  to  ask  you  for  something,"  she  said. 

"  Ay  ?  ay  ?     What  may  it  be  ye' re  wanting  of  me  ?" 

"  I  want  the  letter  I  lost  at  Craig  Fernie." 

Even  the  solidly-founded  self-possession  of  Bishopriggs  him- 
self was  shaken  by  the  startling  directness  of  that  attack  on  it. 
His  glib  tongue  was  paralyzed  for  the  moment.  "  I  dinna  ken 
what  ye're  drivin'  at,"  he  said,  after  an  interval,  with  a  sullen 
consciousness  that  he  had  been  all  but  tricked  into  betraying 
himself 

The  change  in  his  manner  convinced  Anne  that  she  had 
found  in  Bishopriggs  the  person  of  whom  she  was  in  search. 

"You  have  got  my  letter,"  she  said,  sternly  insisting  on  the 
truth.  "And  you  are  trying  to  turn  it  to  a  disgraceful  use. 
I  won't  allow  you  to  make  a  market  of  my  private  afiairp. 


MAN   AND   WIFE.  369 

You  have  offered  a  letter  of  mine  for  sale  to  a  stranger.  I 
insist  on  your  restoring  it  to  me  before  I  leave  this  room  !" 

Bishopriggs  hesitated  again.  His  first  suspicion  that  Anne 
had  been  privately  instructed  by  Mrs.  Glenarm's  lawyers  re- 
turned to  his  mind  as  a  suspicion  confirmed.  He  felt  the  vast 
importance  of  making  a  cautious  repl3^ 

"I'll  no'  waste  precious  time,"  he  said,  after  a  moment's 
consideration  with  himself,  "  in  brushing  awa'  the  fawse  breath 
o'  scandal,  when  it  passes  my  way.  It  blaws  to  nae  purpose, 
my  young  leddy,  when  it  blaws  on  an  honest  man  like  me. 
Fie  for  shame  on  ye  for  saying  what  ye've  joost  said — to  me 
that  was  a  fether  to  ye  at  Craig  Fernie  !  Wha'  set  ye  on  to 
it  ?  Will  it  be  man  or  woman  that's  misca'ed  me  behind  my 
back  ?" 

Anne  took  the  Glasgow  newspaper  from  the  pocket  of  her 
traveling -cloak,  and  placed  it  before  him,  open  at  the  para- 
graph which  described  the  act  of  extortion  attempted  on  Mrs, 
Glenarm. 

"  I  have  found  there,"  she  said,  "  all  that  I  want  to  know." 

"May  a'  the  tribe  o'  editors,  preenters,  paper-makers,  news- 
venders,  and  the  like,  bleeze  together  in  the  pit  o'  Tophet !" 
With  this  devout  aspiration — internally  felt,  not  openly  ut- 
tered— Bishopriggs  put  on  his  spectacles,  and  read  the  passage 
pointed  out  to  him.  "  I  see  naething  here  touching  the  name 
o'  Sawmuel  Bishopriggs,  or  the  matter  o'  ony  loss  ye  may  or 
may  not  ha'  had  at  Craig  Fernie,"  he  said,  when  he  had  done ; 
still  defending  his  position,  with  a  resolution  worthy  of  a  bet- 
ter cause. 

Anne's  pride  recoiled  at  the  prospect  of  prolonging  the  dis- 
cussion with  him.  She  rose  to  her  feet,  and  said  her  last 
words. 

"I  have  learned  enough  by  this  time,"  she  answered,  "to 
know  that  the  one  argument  that  prevails  with  you  is  the  ar- 
gument of  money.  If  money  will  spare  me  the  hateful  neces- 
sity of  disputing  with  you — poor  as  I  am,  money  you  shall 
have.  Be  silent,  if  you  please.  You  are  personally  interested 
in  what  I  have  to  say  next." 

She  opened  her  purse,  and  took  a  five-pound  note  from  it. 

"If  you  choose  to  own  the  truth,  and  produce  the  letter," 
she  resumed,  "  I  will  give  you  this,  as  your  reward  for  finding, 
and  restoring  to  me  something  that  I  had  lost.  If  you  persist 
in  your  present  prevarication,  I  can,  and  will,  make  that  sheet 
of  note-paper  you  have  stolen  from  me  nothing  but  waste  pa- 
per in  your  hands.  You  have  threatened  Mrs.  Glenarm  with 
my  interference.  Suppose  I  go  to  Mrs.  Glenarm  ?  Suppose  I 
interfere  before  the  week  is  out  ?  Suppose  I  have  other  letters 
of  Mr.  Delamayn's  in  my  possession,  and  produce  them  to  speak 


370  MAN   AND   WIFE. 

for  me?     What  has  Mrs.  Glenarm  to  purchase  of  you  then? 
Answer  me  that !" 

The  color  rose  on  Iier  pale  face.  Her  eyes,  dim  and  weary 
when  she  entered  the  room,  looked  hira  brightly  through  and 
through  in  immeasurable  contempt.  "Answer  me  that!"  she 
repeated,  with  a  burst  of  her  old  energy  which  revealed  the 
fire  and  passion  of  the  woman's  nature,  not  quenched  even 

If  Bishopriggs  had  a  merit,  it  was  a  rare  merit,  as  men  go, 
of  knowing  when  he  was  beaten.  If  he  had  an  accomplish- 
ment, it  was  the  accomplishment  of  retiiing  defeated,  with  all 
the  honors  of  war. 

"  Mercy  presairve  us  !"  he  exclaimed,  in  the  most  innocent 
manner.  "  Is  it  even  You  Yersel'  that  writ  the  letter  to  the 
man  ca'ed  Jaifray  Delamayn,  and  got  the  wee  bit  answer  in 
pencil,  on  the  blank  page  ?  Hoo,  in  Heeven's  name,  was  I  to 
know  that  was  the  letter  ye  were  after  when  ye  cam'  in  here  ? 
Did  ye  ever  tell  me  ye  were  Anne  Silvester,  at  the  hottle  ? 
Never  ance  !  Was  the  puir  feckless  husband-creature  ye  had 
wi'  ye  at  the  inn,  Jaifray  Delamayn  ?  Jaftray  wad  mak'  twa 
o'  him,  as  my  ain  eyes  ha'  seen.  Gi'  ye  back  yer  letter?  My 
certie  !  noo  I  know  it  is  yer  letter,  I'll  gi'  it  back  wi'  a'  the 
pleasure  in  life  !" 

He  opened  his  pocket-book,  and  took  it  out,  with  an  alacrity 
worthy  of  the  honestest  man  in  Christendom — and  (more  won- 
derful still)  he  looked  with  a  perfectly  assumed  expression  of 
indifference  at  the  five-pound  note  in  Anne's  hand. 

"  Hoot  I  toot !"  he  said,  "  I'm  no'  that  clear  in  my  mind  that 
I'm  free  to  tak'  yer  money.  Eh,  weel !  weel !  I'll  een  receive 
it,  if  ye  like,  as  a  bit  memento  o'  the  time  when  I  was  o'  some 
sraa'  sairvice  to  ye  at  the  hottle.  Ye'll  no'  mind,"  he  added, 
suddenly  returning  to  business,  "  writin'  me  joost  a  line — in 
the  way  o'  receipt,  ye  ken— to  clear  me  o'  ony  future  suspicion 
in  the  matter  o'  the  letter  ?" 

Anne  threw  down  the  bank-note  on  the  table  near  which 
they  were  standing,  and  snatched  the  letter  from  him. 

*'  You  need  no  receipt,"  she  answered.  "  There  shall  be  no 
letter  to  bear  witness  against  you  !" 

She  lifted  her  other  hand  to  tear  it  in  pieces.  Bishopriggs 
caught  her  by  both  wrists,  at  the  same  moment,  and  held  her 
fast. 

"  Bide  a  wee  !"  he  said.  "  Ye  don't  get  the  letter,  young 
madam,  without  the  receipt.  It  may  be  a'  the  same  to  yo?/, 
now  ye've  married  the  other  man,  whether  Jaffray  Delamayn 
ance  promised  ye  fair  in  the  by-gone  time  or  no.  But,  my 
certie  !  it's  a  matter  o'  some  moment  to  me^  that  ye've  chairged 
wi'  steal  in'  the   letter,  and  making   a    market  o't,  and    Lord 


MAN   AND   WIPE.  371 

knows  what  besides,  that  I  sulci  hae  yer  ain  acknowledgment 
for  it  in  black  and  white.  Gi'  me  my  bit  receipt — and  een  do 
as  ye  will  with  yer  letter  after  that  !" 

Anne's  hold  of  the  letter  relaxed.  She  let  Bishopriggs  re- 
possess himself  of  it  as  it  dropped  on  the  floor  between  them, 
without  making  an  effort  to  prevent  him. 

"  It  may  be  a'  the  same  to  yo?<,  now  ye've  married  the  other 
man,  whether  Jaff"ray  Delamayn  ance  promised  ye  fair  in  the 
by-gone  time,  or  no."  Those  words  presented  Anne's  position 
before  her  in  a  light  in  which  she  had  not  seen  it  yet.  She 
had  truly  expressed  the  loathing  that  Geoff'rey  now  inspired 
in  her,  when  she  had  declared  in  her  letter  to  Arnold,  that, 
even  if  he  offered  her  marriage,  in  atonement  for  the  past,  she 
would  rather  be  what  she  was  than  be  his  wife.  It  had  never 
occurred  to  her,  until  this  moment,  that  others  would  misin- 
terpret the  sensitive  pride  which  had  prompted  the  abandon- 
ment of  her  claim  on  the  man  who  had  ruined  her.  It  had 
never  been  brought  home  to  her  until  now,  that  if  she  left  him 
contemptuously  to  go  his  own  way,  and  sell  himself  to  the 
first  woman  who  had  money  enough  to  buy  him,  her  conduct 
would  sanction  the  false  conclusion  that  she  was  powerless  to 
interfere,  because  she  was  married  already  to  another  man.  The 
color  that  had  risen  in  her  face  vanished,  and  left  it  deadly 
pale  again.  She  began  to  see  that  the  purpose  of  her  journey 
to  the  North  was  not  completed  yet. 

"  I  will  give  you  your  receipt,"  she  said.  "  Tell  me  what  to 
write,  and  it  shall  be  written." 

Bishopriggs  dictated  the  receipt.  She  wrote  and  signed  it. 
He  put  it  in  his  pocket-book  with  the  five-pound  note,  and 
handed  her  the  letter  in  exchange. 

"  Tear  it  if  ye  will,"  he  said.     "  It  matters  naething  to  me." 

For  a  moment  she  hesitated.  A  sudden  shuddering  shook 
her  from  head  to  foot — the  forewarning,  it  might  be,  of  the  in- 
flnence  which  that  letter,  saved  from  destruction  by  a  hair- 
breadth, was  destined  to  exercise  on  her  life  to  come.  She 
recovered  herself,  and  folded  her  cloak  closer  to  her,  as  if  she 
had  felt  a  passing  chill. 

"  No,"  she  said  ;  "I  will  keep  the  letter." 

She  folded  it  and  put  it  in  tlie  pocket  of  her  dress.  Then 
turned  to  go — and  stopped  at  the  door. 

"  One  thing  more,"  she  added.  "  Do  you  know  Mrs.  Glen- 
arm's  present  address  ?" 

"  Ye're  no'  reely  going  to  Mistress  Glenarm?" 

"  That  is  no  concern  of  yours.  You  can  answer  my  question 
or  not,  as  you  please." 

"  Eh,  my  leddy  !  yer  temper's  no'  what  it  used  to  be  in  the 
auld  times  at  the  hottle.     Aweel !  aweel !  ye  ha'  gi'en  me  yej* 


372  MAN    AND    WIFE. 

money,  and  I'll  een  gi'  ye  back  gude  measure  for  it,  on  my  Bide. 
Mistress  Glenarm's  awa'  in  private — incog,  as  they  say — to  Jaf- 
fray  Delamayn's  brither  at  Swanhaven  Lodge.  Ye  may  rely 
on  the  information,  and  it's  no'  that  easy  to  come  at  either. 
They've  keepit  it  a  secret,  as  they  think,  from  a'  the  warld. 
Hech  !  hech  !  Tammy  Pennyquick's  youngest  but  twa  is  page- 
boy at  the  hoose  where  the  leddy's  been  veesitiii',  on  the  out- 
skirts o'  Pairth.  Keep  a  secret  if  ye  can  frae  the  pawky  ears 
o'  yer  domestics  in  the  servants'  hall ! — Eh  !  she's  aif,  without 
a  word  at  parting  !"  he  exclaimed  as  Anne  left  him  without 
ceremony  in  the  middle  of  his  dissertation  on  secrets  and  serv- 
ants' halls.  "  I  trow  I  ha'  gaen  out  for  wool,  and  come  back 
shorn,"  he  added,  reflecting  grimly  on  the  disastrous  over- 
throw of  the  promising  speculation  on  which  he  had  embarked, 
"My  certie  !  there  was  naething  left  for't,  when  madam's  fin- 
gers had  grippit  me,  but  to  slip  through  them  as  cannily  as  I 
could.  What's  JaiFray's  marrying,  or  no'  marrying,  to  do  wi' 
her  .^"  he  wondered,  reverting  to  the  question  which  Anne  had 
put  to  him  at  parting.  "And  whar's  the  sense  o'  her  errand,  if 
she's  reely  bent  on  finding  her  way  to  Mistress  Glenarm  ?" 

Whatever  the  sense  of  her  errand  might  be,  Anne's  next  pro- 
ceeding proved  that  she  was  really  bent  on  it.  After  resting 
two  days,  she  left  Perth  by  the  first  train  in  the  morning,  for 
Swanhaven  Lodge. 


NINTH  SCENE.  — THE  MUSICROOM. 
CHAPTER  THE  FORTIETH. 

JULIUS  MAKES  MISCHIEF. 

Julius  Delamatn  was  alone;  idly  sauntering  to  and  fro, 
with  his  violin  in  his  hand,  on  the  terrace  at  Swanhaven  Lodge. 

The  first  mellow  light  of  evening  was  in  the  sky.  It  was 
the  close  of  the  day  on  which  Anne  Silvester  had  left  Perth. 

Some  hours  earlier,  Julius  had  sacrificed  himself  to  the  du- 
ties of  his  political  position  —  as  made  for  him  by  his  father. 
He  had  submitted  to  the  dire  necessity  of  delivering  an  oration 
to  the  electors,  at  a  public  meeting  in  the  neighboring  town 
of  Kirkandrew.  A  detestable  atmosphere  to  breathe  ;  a  dis- 
orderly audience  to  address  ;  insolent  opposition  to  conciliate ; 
imbecile  inquiries  to  answer;  brutish  interruptions  to  endure; 
greedy  petitioners  to  pacify  ;  and  dirty  hands  to  shake  :  these 
are  the  stages  by  which  the  aspiring  English  gentleman  is 
compelled  to  travel  on  the  journey  which  leads  him  from  the 


MAN   AND    WIFE.  873 

modest  obscurity  of  private  life  to  the  glorious  publicity  of 
the  House  of  Commons.  Julius  paid  the  preliminary  penalties 
of  a  political  first  appearance,  as  exacted  by  free  institutions, 
with  the  necessary  patience  ;  and  returned  to  the  welcome 
shelter  of  home,  more  indifferent,  if  possible,  to  the  attractions 
of  Parliamentary  distinction  than  when  he  set  out.  The  dis- 
cord of  the  roaring  "  people "  (still  echoing  in  his  ears)  had 
sharpened  his  customary  sensibility  to  the  poetry  of  sound,  as 
composed  by  Mozart,  and  as  interpreted  by  piano  and  violin. 
Possessing  himself  of  his  beloved  instrument,  he  had  gone  out 
on  the  terrace  to  cool  himself  in  the  evening  air,  pending  the 
arrival  of  the  servant  whom  he  had  summoned  by  the  music- 
room  bell.  The  man  appeared  at  the  glass  door  which  led 
into  the  room  ;  and  reported,  in  answer  to  his  master's  inquiry, 
that  Mrs.  Julius  Delamayn  was  out  paying  visits,  and  was  not 
expected  to  return  for  another  hour  at  least. 

Julius  groaned  in  spirit.  The  finest  music  which  Mozart 
has  written  for  the  violin  associates  that  instrument  with  the 
piano.  Without  the  wife  to  help  him,  the  husband  was  mute. 
After  an  instant's  consideration,  .Tubus  hit  on  an  idea  which 
promised,  in  some  degree,  to  remedy  the  disaster  of  Mrs.  Dela- 
mayn's  absence  from  home. 

"  Has  Mrs.  Glenarm  gone  out,  too  ?"  he  asked. 

"No,  sir." 

"My  compliments.  If  Mrs.  Glenarm  has  nothing  else  to  do, 
will  she  be  so  kind  as  to  come  to  me  in  the  music-room  ?" 

The  servant  went  away  with  his  message.  Julius  seated 
himself  on  one  of  the  terrace  benches,  and  began  to  tune  his 
violin. 

Mrs.  Glenarm  —  rightly  reported  by  Bishopriggs  as  having 
privately  taken  refuge  from  her  anonymous  correspondent  at 
Swanhaven  Lodge  —  was,  musically  speaking,  far  from  being 
an  efficient  substitute  for  Mrs.  Delamayn.  Julius  possessed, 
in  his  wife,  one  of  the  few  players  on  the  piano-forte  under 
whose  subtle  touch  that  shallow  and  soulless  instrument  be- 
comes inspired  with  expression  not  its  own,  and  produces  mu- 
sic instead  of  noise.  The  fine  organization  which  can  work 
this  miracle  had  not  been  bestowed  on  Mrs.  Glenarm.  She 
had  been  carefully  taught ;  and  she  was  to  be  trusted  to  play 
correctly — and  that  was  all.  Julius,  hungry  for  music,  and  re- 
signed to  circumstances,  asked  for  no  more. 

The  servant  returned  with  his  answer.  Mrs.  Glenarm  would 
join  Mr.  Delamayn  in  the  music-room  in  ten  minutes'  time. 

Julius  rose,  relieved,  and  resumed  his  sauntering  walk  ;  now 
playing  little  snatches  of  music  ;  now  stopping  to  look  at  the 
flowers  on  the  terrace,  with  an  eye  that  enjoyed  their  beauty, 
and  a  \jand  that  fondled  them  with  caressing  touch.     If  Im- 


SYi  MAN    AND    WIFE. 

perial  Parliament  had  seen  him  at  that  moment,  Imperial  Par- 
liament must  have  given  notice  of  a  question  to  his  illustrious 
father:  Is  it  possible,  my  loi'd,  that  you  can  have  begotten 
such  a  Member  as  this  ? 

After  stopping  for  a  moment  to  tighten  one  of  the  strings 
of  his  violin,  Julius,  raising  his  head  from  the  instrument,  was 
surprised  to  see  a  lady  approaching  him  on  the  terrace.  Ad- 
vancing to  meet  her,  and  perceiving  that  she  was  a  total 
stranger  to  him,  he  assumed  that  she  was,  in  all  probability,  a 
visitor  to  his  wife. 

"  Have  I  the  honor  of  speaking  to  a  friend  of  Mrs.  Dela- 
mayn's  ?"  he  asked.  "  My  wdfe  is  not  at  home,  I  am  sorry  to 
say." 

"  I  am  a  stranger  to  Mrs.  Delaraayn,"  the  lady  answered. 
"  The  servant  informed  me  that  she  had  gone  out ;  and  that  I 
should  find  Mr.  Delamayn  here." 

Julius  bowed — and  waited  to  hear  more. 

"  I  must  beg  you  to  forgive  my  intrusion,"  the  stranger 
went  on.  "  My  object  is  to  ask  permission  to  see  a  lady  who 
is,  I  have  been  informed,  a  guest  in  your  house." 

The  extraordinary  formality  of  the  request  rather  puzzled 
Julius. 

"  Do  you  mean  Mrs.  Glenarm  ?"  he  asked. 

"  Yes." 

"Pray  don't  think  any  permission  necessary.  A  friend  of 
Mrs.  Glenarm's  may  take  her  welcome  for  granted  in  this 
house." 

"  I  am  not  a  friend  of  Mrs.  Glenarm.  I  am  a  total  sti*anger 
to  her." 

This  made  the  ceremonious  request  preferred  by  the  lady  a 
little  more  intelligible — but  it  left  the  lady's  object  in  wishing 
to  speak  to  Mrs.  Glenarm  still  in  the  dark.  Julius  politely 
-waited,  until  it  pleased  her  to  proceed  further,  and  explain 
herself  The  explanation  did  not  appear  to  be  an  easy  one  to 
give.  Her  eyes  dropped  to  the  ground.  She  hesitated  pain- 
fully. 

"  My  name — if  I  mention  it,"  she  resumed,  without  looking 
up,  "  may  possibly  inform  you — "  She  paused.  Her  color 
came  and  went.  She  hesitated  again  ;  struggled  with  her  agi- 
tation, and  controlled  it.  "  I  am  Anne  Silvester,"  she  said, 
suddenly  raising  her  pale  face,  and  suddenly  steadying  her 
trembling  voice. 

Julius  started,  and  looked  at  her  in  silent  surprise. 

The  name  was  doubly  known  to  him,  Not  long  since,  he 
had  heard  it  from  his  father's  lips,  at  his  father's  bedside. 
Lord  Holchester  had  charged  him,  had  earnestly  charged  him, 
to  bear  that  name  in  mind,  and  to  help  the  woman  who  bore 


MAN    AND    WIFE.  375 

it,  if  the  woman  ever  applied  to  him  in  time  to  come.  Again, 
he  had  heard  the  name,  more  lately,  associated  scandalously 
with  the  name  of  his  brother.  On  the  receipt  of  the  first  of 
the  anonymous  letters  sent  to  her,  Mrs.  Glenarm  had  not  only 
summoned  Geoffrey  himself  to  refute  the  aspersion  cast  upon 
him,  but  had  forwarded  a  private  copy  of  the  letter  to  his  rela- 
tives at  Swanhaven.  Geoffrey's  defense  had  not  entirely  sat- 
isfied Julius  that  his  brother  was  free  from  blame.  As  he 
now  looked  at  Anne  Silvester,  the  doubt  returned  upon  him 
strengthened — almost  confirmed.  Was  this  woman — so  mod- 
est, so  gentle,  so  simply  and  unaffectedly  refined — the  shame- 
less adventuress  denounced  by  Geoffrey,  as  claiming  him  on 
the  strength  of  a  foolish  flirtation  ;  knowing  herself,  at  the 
time,  to  be  privately  married  to  another  man  ?  Was  this 
woman— with  the  voice  of  a  lady,  the  look  of  a  lady,  the  man- 
ner of  a  lady — in  league  (as  Geoffrey  had  declared)  with  the 
illiterate  vagabond  who  was  attempting  to  extort  money 
anonymously  from  Mrs.  Glenarm  ?  Impossible!  Making  ev- 
ery allowance  for  the  proverbial  deceitfulness  of  appearances, 
impossible  ! 

"  Your  name  has  been  mentioned  to  me,"  said  Julius,  an- 
swering her  after  a  momentary  pause.  Ilis  instincts,  as  a  gen- 
tleman, made  him  shrink  from  referring  to  the  association  of 
her  name  with  the  name  of  his  brother,  "My  father  mention- 
ed you,"  he  added,  considerately  explaining  his  knowledge  of 
her  in  that  way,  "  when  I  last  saw  him  in  London." 

"Your  fiither  I"  She  came  a  step  nearer,  with  a  look  of  dis- 
trust as  well  as  a  look  of  astonishment  in  her  face.  "  Your  fa- 
ther is  Lord  Holchester — is  he  not?" 

"  Yes." 

"  What  made  him  speak  of  me .?" 

"He  was  ill  at  the  time,"  Julius  answered.  "And  he  had 
been  thinking  of  events  in  his  past  life  with  which  I  am  en- 
tirely unacquainted.  He  said  he  had  known  your  father  and 
mother.  He  desired  me,  if  you  were  ever  in  want  of  any  as- 
sistance, to  place  my  services  at  your  disposal.  When  he  ex- 
pressed that  wish,  he  spoke  very  earnestly — he  gave  me  tlie 
impression  that  there  was  a  feeling  of  regret  associated  with 
the  recollections  on  which  he  had  been  dwelling." 

Slowly,  and  in  silence,  Anne  drew^  back  to  the  low  wall  of 
the  terrace  close  by.  She  rested  one  hand  on  it  to  support  her- 
self Julius  had  said  words  of  terrible  import  without  a  sus- 
picion of  what  he  had  done.  Never  until  now  had  Anne  Sil- 
vester knowm  that  the  man  w^ho  had  betrayed  her  was  the  son 
of  that  other  man  whose  discovery  of  the  flaw  in  the  marriage 
had  ended  in  the  betrayal  of  her  mother  before  her.  She  felt 
the  shock  of  the  revelation  with  a  chill  of  superstitious  dread. 


376  MAN    AND    WIFE. 

Was  the  chain  of  a  fatality  wound  invisibly  round  her  ?  Turn 
which  way  she  might,  was  she  still  going  darkly  on,  in  the 
track  of  her  dead  mother,  to  an  appointed  and  hereditary 
doom?  Present  things  passed  from  her  view  as  the  awful 
doubt  cast  its  shadow  over  her  mind.  She  lived  again  for  a 
moment  in  the  time  when  she  was  a  child.  She  saw  the  face 
of  her  mother  once  more,  with  the  wan  despair  on  it  of  the  by- 
gone days  when  the  title  of  wife  was  denied  her,  and  the  social 
prospect  was  closed  forever. 

Julius  approached,  and  roused  her. 

"Can  I  get  you  any  thing?"  he  asked.  "You  are  looking 
very  ill.     I  hope  I  have  said  nothing  to  distress  you  ?" 

The  question  failed  to  attract  her  attention.  She  put  a 
question  herself  instead  of  answering  it. 

"  Did  you  say  you  were  quite  ignorant  of  what  your  father 
was  thinking  of  when  he  spoke  to  you  about  me  ?" 

"  Quite  ignorant." 

"  Is  your  brother  likely  to  know  more  about  it  than  you 
do?" 

"  Certainly  not." 

She  paused,  absorbed  once  more  in  her  own  thoughts.  Star- 
tled, on  the  memorable  day  when  they  had  first  met,  by  Geof- 
frey's family  name,  she  had  put  the  question  to  him  whether 
there  had  not  been  some  acquaintance  between  their  parents 
in  the  past  time.  Deceiving  her  in  all  else,  he  had  not  deceived 
in  this.  He  had  spoken  in  good  faith,  when  he  had  declared 
that  he  had  never  heard  her  father  or  her  mother  mentioned 
at  home. 

The  curiosity  of  Julius  was  aroused.  He  attempted  to  lead 
her  on  into  saying  more. 

"  You  appear  to  know  what  my  father  was  thinking  of  when 
he  spoke  to  me,"  he  resumed.     "  May  I  ask — " 

She  interrupted  him  with  a  gesture  of  entreaty. 

"  Pray  don't  ask !  It's  past  and  over — it  can  have  no  in- 
terest for  you — it  has  nothing  to  do  with  my  errand  here.  I 
must  return,"  she  went  on,  hurriedly,  "  to  my  object  in  tres- 
passing on  your  kindness.  Have  you  heard  me  mentioned, 
Mr.  Delamayn,  by  another  member  of  your  family  besides  your 
father?" 

Julius  had  not  anticipated  that  she  would  approach,  of  her 
own  accord,  the  painful  subject  on  which  he  had  himself  for- 
borne to  touch.  He  was  a  little  disappointed.  He  had  ex- 
pected more  delicacy  of  feeling  from  her  than  she  had  shown. 

"  Is  it  necessary,"  he  asked,  coldly,  "  to  enter  on  that  ?" 

The  blood  rose  again  in  Anne's  cheeks. 

"  If  it  had  not  been  necessary,"  she  answered,  "  do  you  think 
I  could  have  forced  myself  to  mention  it  to  you  ?     Let  me  re- 


MAN    AND    WIFE.  3V7 

mind  you  that  I  am  here  on  sufferance.  If  I  don't  speak  plain- 
ly (no  matter  at  wliat  sacrifice  to  my  own  feelings),  I  make  my 
situation  more  embarrassing  than  it  is  already.  I  have  some- 
thing to  tell  Mrs.  Glenarm  relating  to  the  anonymous  letters 
which  she  has  lately  received.  And  I  have  a  word  to  say  to 
her,  next,  about  her  contemplated  marriage.  Before  you  allow 
me  to  do  this,  you  ought  to  know  who  I  am.  (I  have  owned 
it.)  You  ought  to  have  heard  the  worst  that  can  be  said  of 
my  conduct.  (Your  face  tells  me  you  have  heard  the  worst.) 
After  the  forbearance  you  have  shown  to  me,  as  a  perfect 
stranger,  I  will  not  commit  the  meanness  of  taking  you  by  sur- 
prise. Perhaps,  Mr.  Delamayn,  you  understand,  7ioic,  why  I 
felt  myself  obliged  to  refer  to  your  brother.  Will  you  trust 
me  with  permission  to  speak  to  Mrs.  Glenarm  ?" 

It  was  simply  and  modestly  said — with  an  unaffected  and 
touching  resignation  of  look  and  manner.  Julius  gave  her 
back  the  respect  and  the  sympathy  which,  for  a  moment,  he 
had  unjustly  withheld  from  her. 

"  You  have  placed  a  confidence  in  me,"  he  said,  "  which  most 
persons  in  your  situation  would  have  withheld,  I  feel  bound, 
in  return,  to  place  confidence  in  you.  I  will  take  it  for  granted 
that  your  motive  in  this  matter  is  one  which  it  is  my  duty  to 
respect.  It  will  be  for  Mrs.  Glenarm  to  say  whether  she  wish- 
es the  interview  to  take  place  or  not.  All  that  I  can  do  is  to 
leave  you  free  to  propose  it  to  her.     You  are  free." 

As  he  spoke,  the  sound  of  the  piano  reached  them  from  the 
music-room.  Julius  pointed  to  the  glass  door  which  opened 
on  to  the  terrace. 

"You  have  only  to  go  in  by  that  door,"  be  said,  "and  you 
will  find  Mrs.  Glenarm  alone." 

Anne  bowed,  and  left  him.  Arrived  at  the  short  flight  of 
steps  which  led  up  to  the  door,  she  paused  to  collect  her 
thoughts  before  she  went  in. 

A  sudden  reluctance  to  go  on  and  enter  the  room  took  pos- 
session of  her,  as  she  waited  with  her  foot  on  the  lower  step. 
The  report  of  Mrs.  Glenarm's  contemplated  marriage  had  pro- 
duced no  such  effect  on  her  as  Sir  Patrick  had  supposed  :  it 
had  found  no  love  for  Geoffrey  left  to  wound,  no  latent  jeal- 
ousy only  waiting  to  be  inflamed.  Her  object  in  taking  the 
journey  to  Perth  was  completed  when  her  correspondence 
with  Geoffrey  was  in  her  own  hands  again.  The  change  of 
purpose  which  had  brought  her  to  Swanhaven  was  due  entire- 
ly to  the  new  view  of  her  position  toward  Mrs.  Glenarm  which 
the  coarse  common  sense  of  Bishopriggs  had  first  suggested  to 
her.  If  she  failed  to  protest  against  Mrs.  Glenarm's  marriage, 
in  the  interests  of  the  reparation  which  Geoffrey  owed  to  her, 


3V8  MAN   AND   WIFE. 

her  conduct  would  only  confirm  Geoffrey's  audacious  assertion 
that  she  was  a  married  woman  already.  For  her  own  sake 
she  might  still  have  hesitated  to  move  in  the  matter.  But 
Blanche's  interests  were  concerned  as  well  as  her  own ;  and, 
for  Blanche's  sake,  she  had  resolved  on  making  the  journey  to 
Swanhaven  Lodge. 

At  the  same  time,  feeling  toward  Geoffrey  as  she  felt  now — 
conscious  that  she  was  of  not  really  desiring  the  reparation  on 
which  she  was  about  to  insist— it  was  essential  to  the  preser- 
vation of  her  own  self-respect  that  she  should  have  some  pur- 
pose in  view  which  could  justify  her  to  her  own  conscience  in 
assuming  the  character  of  Mrs.  Glenarm's  rival. 

She  had  only  to  call  to  mind  the  critical  situation  of  Blanche 
— and  to  see  her  purpose  before  her  plainly.  Assuming  that 
she  could  open  the  coming  interview  by  peaceably  proving 
that  her  claim  on  Geoffrey  was  beyond  dispute,  she  might 
then,  without  fear  of  misconception,  take  the  tone  of  a  friend 
instead  of  an  enemy,  and  might,  with  the  best  grace,  assure 
Mrs.  Glenarm  that  she  had  no  rivalry  to  dread,  on  the  one 
easy  condition  that  she  engaged  to  make  Geoffrey  repair  the 
evil  that  he  had  done.  "  Marry  him  without  a  word  against 
it  to  dread  from  tne — so  long  as  he  unsays  the  words  and  un- 
does the  deeds  which  have  thrown  a  doubt  on  the  marriage 
of  Arnold  and  Blanche."  If  she  could  but  bring  the  interview 
to  this  end — there  was  the  way  found  of  extricating  Arnold, 
by  her  own  exertions,  from  the  false  position  in  which  she  had 
innocently  placed  him  toward  his  wife  !  Such  was  the  object 
before  her,  as  she  now  stood  on  the  brink  of  her  interview  with 
Mrs.  Glenarm. 

Up  to  this  moment,  she  had  firmly  believed  in  her  capacity 
to  realize  her  own  visionary  project.  It  was  only  when  she 
had  her  foot  on  the  step  that  a  doubt  of  the  success  of  the 
coming  experiment  crossed  her  mind.  For  the  first  time  she 
saw  the  weak  point  in  her  own  reasoning.  For  the  first  time 
she  felt  how  much  she  had  blindly  taken  for  granted,  in  assum- 
ing that  Mrs.  Glenarm  would  have  sufficient  sense  of  justice  and 
sufficient  command  of  temper  to  hear  her  patiently.  All  her 
hopes  of  success  rested  on  her  own  favorable  estimate  of  a  wom- 
an who  was  a  total  stranger  to  her !  What  if  the  first  words 
exchanged  between  them  proved  the  estimate  to  be  wrong? 

It  was  too  late  to  pause  and  reconsider  the  position.  Julius 
Delamayn  had  noticed  her  hesitation,  and  was  advancing  to- 
ward her  from  the  end  of  the  terrace.  There  was  no  help  for 
it  but  to  master  her  own  irresolution,  and  to  run  the  risk  bold- 
ly. "  Come  what  may,  I  have  gone  too  far  to  stop  Acre." 
With  that  desperate  resolution  to  animate  her,  she  opened  the 
glass  door  at  the  to])  of  the  steps,  and  went  into  the  room. 


MAN    AND    WIFE.  379 

Mrs.  Glenarm  rose  from  the  piano.  The  two  women — one 
so  richly,  the  other  so  plainly  dressed ;  one  with  her  beauty  in 
its  full  bloom,  the  other  worn  and  blighted  ;  one  with  society 
at  her  feet,  the  other  an  outcast  living  under  the  bleak  shadow 
of  reproach — the  two  women  stood  face  to  face,  and  exchanged 
the  cold  courtesies  of  salute  between  strangers,  in  silence. 

The  first  to  meet  the  trivial  necessities  of  the  situation  was 
Mrs.  Glenarm.  She  good-humoredly  put  an  end  to  the  em- 
barrassment— which  the  shy  visitor  appeared  to  feel  acutely — 
by  speaking  first. 

"  I  am  afraid  the  servants  have  not  told  you  ?"  she  said. 
"  Mrs.  Delamayu  has  gone  out." 

"  I  beg  your  pardon — I  have  not  called  to  see  Mrs.  Dela- 
mayn." 

Mrs.  Glenarm  looked  a  little  surprised.  She  went  on,  how- 
ever, as  amiably  as  before. 

"  Mr.  Delamayn,  perhaps  ?"  she  suggested.  "  I  expect  him 
here  every  moment." 

Anne  explained  again.  "  I  have  just  parted  from  Mr.  Dela- 
mayn." Mrs.  Glenarm  opened  her  eyes  in  astonishment.  Anne 
proceeded.  "  I  have  come  here,  if  you  will  excuse  the  intru- 
sion— " 

She  hesitated  —  at  a  loss  how  to  end  the  sentence.  Mrs. 
Glenarm,  beginning  by  this  time  to  feel  a  strong  curiosity  as 
to  what  might  be  coming  next,  advanced  to  the  rescue  once 
more. 

"Pray  don't  apologize,"  she  said.  "I  think  I  understand 
that  you  are  so  good  as  to  have  come  to  see  me.  You  look 
tired.     Won't  you  take  a  chair  ?" 

Anne  could  stand  no  longer.  She  took  the  offered  chair. 
Mrs.  Glenarm  resumed  her  place  on  the  music-stool,  and  ran 
her  fingers  idly  over  the  keys  of  the  piano.  "  Where  did  you 
see  Mr.  Delamayn  ?"  she  went  on.  "  The  most  irresponsible 
of  men,  except  when  he  has  got  his  fiddle  in  his  hand  !  Is  he 
coming  in  soon?  Are  we  going  to  have  any  music?  Have 
you  come  to  play  with  us?  Mr.  Delamayn  is  a  perfect  fanatic 
in  music,  isn't  he  ?  Why  isn't  he  here  to  introduce  us  ?  I 
suppose  you  like  the  classical  style,  too  ?  Did  you  know  that 
I  was  in  the  music-room  ?     Might  I  ask  your  name  ?" 

Frivolous  as  they  were,  Mrs.  Glenarm's  questions  were  not 
without  their  use.  They  gave  Anne  time  to  summon  her  res- 
olution, and  to  feel  the  necessity  of  explaining  herself 

"I  am  speaking,  I  believe,  to  Mrs.  Glenarm?"  she  began. 

The  good-humored  widow  smiled,  and  bowed  graciously. 

"  I  have  come  here,  Mrs.  Glenarm — by  Mr.  Delamayn's  per- 
mission— to  ask  leave  to  speak  to  you  on  a  matter  in  which 
you  are  interested." 


380  MAN   AND    WIFE. 

Mrs,  Glenarra's  many-ringed  fingers  paused  over  the  keys 
of  the  piano.  Mrs.  Glenarra's  plump  face  turned  on  the  sti'an- 
ger  Avith  a  dawning  expression  of  surprise. 

"Indeed  ?  I  am  interested  in  so  many  matters.  May  I  ask 
what  this  matter  is  ?" 

The  flippant  tone  of  the  speaker  jarred  on  Anne.  If  Mrs. 
Glenarm's  nature  was  as  shallow  as  it  appeared  to  be  on  the 
surface,  there  was  little  hope  of  any  sympathy  establishing  it- 
self between  them. 

"  I  wished  to  speak  to  you,"  she  answered,  "  about  something 
that  happened  while  you  were  paying  a  visit  in  the  neighbor- 
hood of  Perth." 

The  dawning  surprise  in  Mrs.  Glenarm's  face  became  intensi- 
fied into  an  expression  of  distrust.  Her  hearty  manner  vanish- 
ed under  a  veil  of  conventional  civility,  drawn  over  it  sudden- 
ly. She  looked  at  Anne.  "  Never  at  the  best  of  times  a  beau- 
ty," she  thought.  "  Wretchedly  out  of  health  now.  Dressed 
like  a  servant,  and  looking  like  a  lady.     What  does  it  mean  ?" 

The  last  doubt  was  not  to  be  borne  in  silence  by  a  person 
of  Mrs.  Glenarm's  temperament.  She  addressed  herself  to  the 
solution  of  it  with  the  most  unblushing  directness — dextei'ous- 
ly  excused  by  the  most  winning  frankness  of  manner. 

"  Pardon  me,"  she  said.  "  My  memory  for  faces  is  a  bad 
one;  and  I  don't  think  you  heard  me  just  now,  when  I  asked 
for  your  name.     Have  we  ever  met  before  ?" 

"  Never." 

"  And  yet — if  I  understand  what  you  are  referring  to — you 
wish  to  speak  to  me  about  something  which  is  only  interesting 
to  myself  and  my  most  intimate  friends." 

"  You  understand  me  quite  correctly,"  said  Anne.  "  I  wish 
to  speak  to  you  about  some  anonymous  letters — " 

"For  the  third  time,  will  you  permit  me  to  ask  for  your 
name  ?" 

"  You  shall  hear  it  directly — if  you  will  first  allow  me  to 
finish  what  I  wanted  to  say.  I  wish — if  I  can — to  persuade 
you  that  I  come  here  as  a  friend,  before  I  mention  my  name. 
You  will,  I  am  sure,  not  be  very  sorry  to  hear  that  you  need 
dread  no  further  annoyance — " 

"  Pardon  me  once  more,"  said  Mrs.  Glenarm,  interposing  for 
the  second  time.  "  I  am  at  a  loss  to  know  to  what  I  am  to  at- 
tribute this  kind  interest  in  my  affairs  on  the  part  of  a  total 
stranger." 

This  time  her  tone  was  more  than  politely  cold  —  it  was 
politely  impertinent.  Mrs.  Glenarm  had  lived  all  her  life  in 
good  society,  and  was  a  perfect  mistress  of  the  subtleties  of 
refined  insolence  in  her  intercourse  with  those  who  incurred 
her  displeasure. 


MAN    AND    WIFE.  381 

Anne's  sensitive  nature  felt  the  wound — but  Anne's  patient 
courage  submitted.  She  put  away  from  her  the  insolence 
which  had  tried  to  sting,  and  went  on,  gently  and  firmly,  as  if 
nothing  had  happened. 

"The  person  who  wi'ote  to  you  anonymously,"  she  said,  "al 
luded  to  a  cori-espondenee.  He  is  no  h)nger  in  possession  of 
it.  The  correspondence  has  passed  into  hands  which  may  be 
trusted  to  respect  it.  It  will  be  put  to  no  base  use  in  the  fu- 
ture— I  answer  for  that." 

"You  answer  for  that?"  repeated  Mrs.  Glenarm.  She  sud- 
denly leaned  forward  over  the  piano,  and  fixed  her  eyes  in  un- 
concealed scrutiny  on  Anne's  face.  The  violent  temper,  so 
often  found  in  combination  with  the  weak  nature,  began  to 
show  itself  in  her  rising  color  and  her  lowering  brow.  "  How 
do  yoii  know  what  the  person  wrote?"  she  asked.  "How  do 
yoxi,  know  that  the  correspondence  has  passed  into  other  hands  ? 
Who  are  you  ?"  Before  Anne  could  answer  her,  she  sprang  to 
her  feet,  electrified  by  a  new  idea.  "The  man  who  wrote  to 
me  spoke  of  something  else  besides  a  correspondence.  He 
spoke  of  a  w^oman.  I  have  found  you  out !"  she  exclaimed, 
with  a  burst  of  jealous  fury.     "  I'oi^  are  the  woman  !" 

Anne  rose,  on  her  side,  still  in  firm  possession  of  her  self-con- 
trol. 

"Mrs.  Glenarm,"  she  said,  calmly,  "I  warn  —  no,  I  entreat 
you — not  to  take  that  tone  with  me.  Compose  yourself;  and 
I  promise  to  satisfy  you  that  you  are  more  interested  than  you 
are  willing  to  believe  in  what  I  have  still  to  say.  Pray  bear 
with  me  for  a  little  longer.  I  admit  that  you  have  guessed 
right.  I  own  that  I  am  the  miserable  woman  who  has  been 
ruined  and  deserted  by  GeoiFrey  Delamayn." 

" It's  false !"  cried  Mrs.  Glenarm.  "You  wretch!  Do  you 
come  to  me  with  your  trumped-up  story?  What  does  Julius 
Delamayn  mean  by  exposing  me  to  this  ?"  Her  indignation  at 
finding  herself  in  the  same  room  with  Anne  broke  its  way 
through,  not  the  restraints  only,  but  the  common  decencies  of 
politeness.  "  I'll  ring  for  the  servants  !"  she  said.  "  I'll  have 
you  turned  out  of  the  house." 

She  tried  to  cross  the  fire-place  to  ring  the  bell.  Anne,  who 
was  standing  nearest  to  it,  stepped  forward  at  the  same  mo- 
ment. Without  saying  a  word,  she  motioned  with  her  hand 
to  the  other  woman  to  stand  back.  There  was  a  pause.  The 
two  waited,  with  their  eyes  steadily  fixed  on  one  another — each 
with  her  resolution  laid  bare  to  the  other's  view.  In  a  mo- 
ment more,  the  finer  nature  prevailed.  Mrs.  Glenarm  drew 
back  a  step  in  silence. 

"  Listen  to  me,"  said  Anne. 

''Listen  to  you?"  repeated  Mrs.  Glenarm.     "You  have  no 


382  MAN    AND    WIFE. 

right  to  be  in  this  honso.  You  have  no  right  to  force  yourself 
in  here.     Leave  the  room  !" 

Anne's  patience — so  firmly  and  admirably  preserved  thus 
far — began  to  fail  her  at  last. 

"Take  care,  Mrs.  Glenarm !"  she  said,  still  struggling  with 
herself.  "I  am  not  naturally  a  patient  woman.  Trouble  has 
done  much  to  tame  my  temper — but  endurance  has  its  limits. 
You  have  reached  the  limits  of  mine.  I  have  a  claim  to  be 
heard — and  after  what  you  have  said  to  me,  I  loill  be  heard  !" 

"  You  have  no  claim  !  You  shameless  woman,  you  are  mar- 
ried already.     I  know  the  man's  name.     Arnold  Brinkworth." 

"  Did  Geoffrey  Delamayn  tell  you  that  ?" 

"  I  decline  to  answer  a  woman  who  speaks  of  Mr.  Geoffrey 
Delamayn  in  that  familiar  way." 

Anne  advanced  a  step  nearer. 

"  Did  Geoffrey  Delamayn  tell  you  that  ?"  she  repeated. 

There  was  a  light  in  her  eyes,  there  was  a  ring  in  her  voice, 
which  showed  that  she  was  roused  at  last.  Mrs.  Glenarm  an- 
swered her  this  time. 

"  He  did  tell  me." 

"  He  lied !" 

"He  did  7iot!  He  knew.  I  believe  him.  I  don't  believe 
you.'''' 

"  If  he  told  you  that  I  was  any  thing  but  a  single  woman — 
if  he  told  you  that  Arnold  Brinkworth  was  married  to  any 
body  but  Miss  Lundie  of  Windygates — I  say  again  he  lied  I" 

"I  say  again — I  believe  him,  and  not  yotf.'''' 

"  You  believe  I  am  Arnold  Brinkworth's  wife  ?" 

"  I  am  certain  of  it." 

"  You  tell  me  that  to  ray  face?" 

"I  tell  you  to  your  face — you  raay  have  been  Geoffrey  Del- 
amayn's  mistress ;  you  are  Arnold  Brinkworth's  wife." 

At  those  words  the  long-restrained  anger  leaped  up  in  Anne 
— all  the  more  hotly  for  having  been  hitherto  so  steadily  con- 
trolled. In  one  breathless  moment  the  whirlwind  of  her  indig- 
nation swept  away,  not  only  all  remembrance  of  the  purpose 
which  had  brought  her  to  Swanhaven,  but  all  sense  even  of 
the  unpardonable  wrong  which  she  had  suffered  at  Geoffrey's 
hands.  If  he  had  been  there  at  that  moment,  and  had  offered 
to  redeem  his  pledge,  she  would  have  consented  to  marry  him, 
while  Mrs.  Glenarm's  eye  was  on  her — no  matter  whether  she 
destroyed  herself  in  her  first  cool  moment  afterward  or  not. 
The  small  sting  had  planted  itself  at  last  in  the  great  nature. 
The  noblest  woman  is  only  a  woman,  after  all ! 

"  I  forbid  your  marriage  to  Geoffrey  Delamayn  !  I  insist  on 
his  performing  the  promise  he  gave  me,  to  make  me  his  wife  ! 
I  have  got  it  here  in  his  own  words,  in  his  own  writing.     On 


MAN   AND   WIFE.  385 

his  soul,  he  swears  it  to  me — he  will  redeem  his  pledjje.  His 
mistress,  did  you  say  ?  His  wife,  Mrs.  Glenarra,  before  the 
week  is  out !" 

In  those  wild  words  she  cast  back  the  taunt — with  the  let- 
ter held  in  triumph  in  her  hand. 

Daunted  for  the  moment  by  the  doubt  now  literally  forced 
on  her,  that  Anne  might  really  have  the  claim  on  Geoffrey 
which  she  advanced,  Mrs.  Glenarm  answered  nevertheless  with 
the  obstinacy  of  a  woman  brought  to  bay — with  a  resolution 
not  to  be  convinced  by  conviction  itself 

"  I  won't  give  him  up  !"  she  cried.  "  Your  letter  is  a  forgery. 
You  have  no  proof  I  won't,  I  won't,  I  won't  give  him  up !" 
she  repeated,  with  the  impotent  iteration  of  an  angry  child. 

Anne  pointed  disdainfully  to  the  letter  that  she  held. 
"Here  is  his  pledged  and  written  word,"  she  said.  "While  I 
live,  you  will  never  be  his  wife." 

"  I  shall  be  his  wife  the  day  after  the  race.  I  am  going  to 
him  in  London — to  warn  him  against  You  !" 

"  You  will  find  me  in  London  before  you — with  this  in  my 
hand.     Do  you  know  his  writing  ?" 

She  held  up  the  letter,  open.  Mrs.  Glenarm's  hand  flew  out 
with  the  stealthy  rapidity  of  a  cat's  paw,  to  seize  and  destroy 
it.  Quick  as  she  was,  her  rival  was  quicker  still.  For  an  in- 
stant they  faced  each  other  breathless  —  one  with  the  letter 
held  behind  her ;  one  with  her  hand  still  stretched  out. 

At  the  same  moment — before  a  word  more  had  passed  be- 
tween them — the  glass  door  opened  ;  and  Julius  Delamayn  ap- 
peared in  the  room. 

He  addressed  himself  to  Anne. 

"  We  decided,  on  the  terrace,"  he  said,  quietly,  "  that  you 
should  speak  to  Mrs.  Glenarm,  if  Mrs.  Glenarm  wished  it.  Do 
you  think  it  desirable  that  the  interview  should  be  continued 
any  longer  ?" 

Anne's  head  drooped  on  her  breast.  The  fiery  anger  in  her 
was  quenched  in  an  instant. 

"  I  have  been  cruelly  provoked,  Mr.  Delamayn,"  she  answer- 
ed. "But  I  have  no  right  to  plead  that."  She  looked  up  at 
him  for  a  moment.  The  hot  tears  of  shame  gathered  in  her 
eyes,  and  fell  slowly  over  her  cheeks.  She  bent  her  head 
again,  and  hid  them  from  him.  "  The  only  atonement  I  can 
make,"  she  said,  "  is  to  ask  your  pardon,  and  to  leave  the 
house." 

In  silence,  she  turned  away  to  the  door.  In  silence,  Julius 
Delamayn  paid  her  the  trifling  courtesy  of  opening  it  for  her. 
She  went  out. 

Mrs.  Glenarm's  indignation — suspended  for  the  moment- 
transferred  itself  to  Julius. 
25 


386  MAN   AND   WIFE. 

"  If  I  have  been  entrapped  into  seeing  that  woman,  with 
your  approval,"  she  said,  haughtily,  "  I  owe  it  to  myself,  Mr. 
Delamayn,  to  follow  her  example,  and  to  leave  your  house." 

"I  authorized  her  to  ask  you  for  an  interview,  Mrs.  Glen- 
arm.  If  she  has  presumed  on  the  permission  that  I  gave  her, 
I  sincerely  regret  it,  and  I  beg  you  to  accept  my  apologies. 
At  the  same  time,  I  may  venture  to  add,  in  defense  of  my  con- 
duct, that  I  thought  her — and  think  her  still — a  woman  to  be 
pitied  more  than  to  be  blamed." 

"  To  be  pitied — did  you  say  ?"  asked  Mrs.  Glenarm,  doubtful 
whether  her  ears  had  not  deceived  her. 

"To  be  pitied,"  repeated  Julius. 

"  You  may  find  it  convenient,  Mr.  Delamayn,  to  forget  what 
your  brother  has  told  us  about  that  person.  I  happen  to  re- 
member it." 

"  So  do  I,  Mrs.  Glenarm.  But,  with  my  experience  of  Geof- 
frey— "  He  hesitated,  and  ran  his  fingers  nervously  over  the 
strings  of  his  violin. 

"  You  don't  believe  hira  ?"  said  Mrs.  Glenarm. 

Julius  declined  to  admit  that  he  doubted  his  brother's  word, 
to  the  lady  who  was  about  to  become  his  brother's  wife. 

"  I  don't  quite  go  that  length,"  he  said.  "  I  find  it  difficult 
to  reconcile  what  Geoffi'ey  has  told  us,  with  Miss  Silvester's 
manner  and  appearance — " 

"  Her  appearance  !"  cried  Mrs.  Glenarm,  in  a  transport  of 
astonishment  and  disgust.  ^^Her  appearance  !  Oh,  the  men ! 
I  beg  your  pardon — I  ought  to  have  remembered  that  there  is 
no  accounting  for  tastes.     Go  on — pray  go  on  !" 

"  Shall  we  compose  ourselves  with  a  little  music  ?"  suggest- 
ed Julius. 

"I  particularly  request  you  will  go  on,"  answered  Mrs.  Glen- 
arm, emphatically.     "You  find  it  'impossible  to  reconcile — '" 

"  I  said  '  difficult.' " 

"  Oh,  very  well.  Difficult  to  reconcile  what  Geofii'ey  told 
us,  with  Miss  Silvester's  manner  and  appearance.  What  next? 
You  had  something  else  to  say,  when  I  was  so  rude  as  to  in- 
terrupt you.     What  was  it  ?" 

"  Only  this,"  said  Julius.  "  I  don't  find  it  easy  to  under- 
stand Sir  Patrick  Lundie's  conduct  in  permitting  Mr.  Brink- 
worth  to  commit  bigamy  with  his  niece." 

"  Wait  a  minute  !  The  marriage  of  that  horrible  woman  to 
Mr.  Brinkworth  was  a  private  marriage.  Of  course.  Sir  Pat- 
rick knew  nothing  about  it !" 

Julius  owned  that  this  might  be  possible,  and  made  a  second 
attempt  to  lead  the  angry  lady  back  to  the  piano.  Useless, 
once  more  !  Though  she  shrank  from  confessing  it  to  herself, 
Mrs.  Glenarm's  belief  in  the  genuineness  of  her  lover's  defense 


MAN    AND    WIFE.  58? 

had  been  shaken.  The  tone  taken  by  Julius — moderate  as  it 
was — revived  the  first  startling  suspicion  of  the  credibility  of 
Geoffrey's  statement  which  Anne's  language  and  conduct  had 
forced  on  Mrs.  Glenarm.  She  dropped  into  the  nearest  chair, 
and  put  her  handkerchief  to  her  eyes.  "  You  always  hated 
poor  Geoffrey,"  she  said,  with  a  burst  of  tears.  "And  now 
you're  defaming  him  to  me  !" 

Julius  managed  her  admirably.  On  the  point  of  answering 
her  seriously,  he  checked  himself.  "  I  always  hated  poor  Geof- 
frey?" he  repeated,  with  a  smile.  "You  ought  to  be  the  last 
person  to  say  that,  Mrs.  Glenarm  !  I  brought  him  all  the  way 
from  London  expressly  to  introduce  him  to  you.'''' 

"  Then  I  wish  you  had  left  him  in  London !"  retoi'ted  Mrs. 
Glenarm,  shifting  suddenly  from  tears  to  temper.  "  I  was  a 
happy  woman  before  I  met  your  brother.  I  can't  give  him  up !" 
she  burst  out,  shifting  back  again  fi'om  temper  to  tears.  "  I 
don't  care  if  he  has  deceived  me.  I  won't  let  another  woman 
have  him  !  I  will  be  his  wife  !"  She  threw  herself  theatrically 
on  her  knees  before  Julius.  "  Oh,  do  help  me  to  find  out  the 
truth  !"  she  said.    "  Oh,  Julius,  pity  me  !    I  am  so  fond  of  him !" 

There  was  genuine  distress  in  her  face,  there  was  true  feel- 
ing in  her  voice.  Who  would  have  believed  that  there  were 
reserves  of  merciless  insolence  and  heartless  cruelty  in  this 
woman,  and  that  they  had  been  lavishly  poured  out  on  a  fallen 
sister  not  five  minutes  since  ? 

"  I  will  do  all  I  can,"  said  Julius,  raising  her.  "  Let  us  talk 
of  it  when  you  are  more  composed.  Try  a  little  music,"  he 
repeated,  "just  to  quiet  your  nerves." 

"Would  you  like  me  to  play?"  asked  Mrs.  Glenarm,  becom- 
ing a  model  of  feminine  docility  at  a  moment's  notice. 

Julius  opened  the  Sonatas  of  Mozart,  and  shouldered  his 
violin. 

"  Let's  try  the  Fifteenth,"  he  said,  placing  Mrs.  Glenarm  at 
the  piano.  "  We  will  begin  with  the  Adagio.  If  ever  there 
was  divine  music  written  by  mortal  man,  there  it  is  !" 

They  began.  At  the  third  bar  Mrs.  Glenarm  dropped  a  note 
— and  the  bow  of  Julius  paused  shuddering  on  the  strings. 

"I  can't  play  !"  she  said.  "  I  am  so  agitated ;  I  am  so  anx- 
ious. How  a))i  I  to  find  out  whether  that  wretch  is  really 
married  or  not  ?  AVho  can  I  ask  ?  I  can't  go  to  Geoftrey  in 
London — the  trainers  won't  let  me  see  him.  I  can't  appeal  to 
Mr,  Brinkworth  himself — I  am  not  even  acquainted  with  him. 
Who  else  is  there  ?     Do  think,  and  tell  me  !" 

There  was  but  one  chance  of  making  her  return  to  the  Ada- 
gio— the  chance  of  hitting  on  a  suggestion  which  would  satis- 
fy and  quiet  her.  Julius  laid  his  violin  on  the  piano,  and  con- 
sidered the  question  before  him  carefully. 


388  MAN    AND    WIFE. 

"  There  are  the  witnesses,"  he  said.  "  If  Geoffrey's  story  is 
to  be  depended  on,  the  landlady  and  the  waiter  at  the  inn  can 
speak  to  the  facts." 

"  Low  people  !"  objected  Mrs.  Glenarm.  "  People  I  don't 
know.  People  who  might  take  advantage  of  my  situation, 
and  be  insolent  to  me." 

Julius  considered  once  more  ;  and  made  another  suggestion. 
With  the  fatal  ingenuity  of  innocence,  he  hit  on  the  idea  of 
referring  Mrs.  Glenarm  to  no  less  a  person  than  Lady  Lundie 
herself! 

"  There  is  our  good  friend  at  Windygates,"  he  said.  "  Some 
whisper  of  the  matter  may  have  reached  Lady  Lundie's  ears. 
It  may  be  a  little  awkward  to  call  on  her  (if  she  has  heard  any 
thing)  at  the  time  of  a  serious  family  disaster.  You  are  the 
best  judge  of  that,  however.  All  I  can  do  is  to  throw  out  the 
notion.  Windygates  isn't  verj^  far  off — and  something  might 
come  of  it.     What  do  you  think  ?" 

Something  might  come  of  it !  Let  it  be  remembered  that 
Lady  Lundie  had  been  left  entirely  in  the  dark — that  she  had 
written  to  Sh*  Patrick  in  a  tone  which  plainly  showed  that  her 
self-esteem  was  wounded  and  her  suspicion  roused — and  that 
her  first  intimation  of  the  serious  dilemma  in  which  Arnold 
Brinkworth  stood  was  now  likely,  thanks  to  Julius  Delamayn, 
to  reach  her  from  the  lips  of  a  mere  acquaintance.  Let  this  be 
remembered  ;  and  then  let  the  estimate  be  formed  of  what  might 
come  of  it — not  at  Windygates  only,  but  also  at  Ham  Farm ! 

"  What  do  you  think  ?"  asked  Julius. 

Mrs.  Glenarm  was  enchanted.  "  The  very  person  to  go  to  !" 
she  said.  "  If  I  am  not  let  in,  I  can  easily  write — and  explain 
my  object  as  an  apology.  Lady  Lundie  is  so  right-minded,  so 
sympathetic.  If  she  sees  no  one  else — I  have  only  to  confide  my 
anxieties  to  her,  and  I  am  sure  she  will  see  me.  You  will  lend 
me  a  carriage,  won't  you  ?     I'll  go  to  Windygates  to-morrow." 

Julius  took  his  violin  off  the  piano. 

"  Don't  think  me  very  troublesome,"  he  said,  coaxingly.  "  Be- 
tween this  and  to-morrow  we  have  nothing  to  do.  And  it  is 
sxich  music,  if  you  once  get  into  the  swing  of  it !  Would  you 
mind  trying  again  ?" 

Mrs.  Glenarm  was  willing  to  do  any  thing  to  prove  her  grat- 
itude, after  the  invaluable  hint  which  she  had  just  received. 
At  the  second  trial  the  fair  pianist's  eye  and  hand  were  in  per- 
fect harmony.  The  lovely  melody  which  the  Adagio  of  Mozart's 
Fifteenth  Sonata  has  given  to  violin  and  piano  flowed  smooth- 
ly at  last — and  Julius  Delamayn  soared  to  the  seventh  heaven 
of  musical  delight. 

The  next  day  Mrs.  Glenarm  and  Mrs.  Delamayn  went  to- 
gether to  Windygates  House. 


MAN    AN1>    WIFE.  389 


TENTH  SCENE.— THE  BEDROOM. 
CHAPTER   THE   FORTY-FIRST. 

LADY  LUNDIE  DOES  HER  DUTY. 

The  scene  opens  on  a  bedroom — and  discloses,  in  broad  day- 
light, a  lady  in  bed. 

Persons  with  an  irritable  sense  of  propriety,  whose  self-ap- 
pointed duty  it  is  to  be  always  crying  out,  a,re  warned  to  pause 
before  they  cry  out  on  this  occasion.  The  lady  now  presented 
to  view  being  no  less  a  person  than  Lady  Lundie  herself,  it  fol- 
lows, as  a  matter  of  course,  that  the  utmost  demands  of  pro- 
priety are,  by  the  mere  assertion  of  that  fact,  abundantly  and 
indisputably  satisfied.  To  sr.y  that  any  thing  short  of  direct 
moral  advantage  could,  by  any  possibility,  accrue  to  any  living 
creature  by  the  presentation  of  her  ladyship  in  a  hoi'izontal,  in- 
stead of  a  perpendicular  position,  is  to  assert  that  Virtue  is  a 
question  of  posture,  and  that  Respectability  ceases  to  assert 
itself  when  it  ceases  to  appear  in  morning  or  evening  dress. 
Will  any  body  be  bold  enough  to  say  that  ?  Let  nobody  cry 
out,  then,  on  the  present  occasion. 

Lady  Lundie  was  in  bed. 

Her  ladyship  had  received  Blanche's  written  announcement 
of  the  sudden  stoppage  of  the  bridal  tour  ;  and  had  penned  the 
answer  to  Sir  Patrick — the  receipt  of  which  at  Ham  Farm  has 
been  already  described.  This  done.  Lady  Lundie  felt  it  due 
to  herself  to  take  a  becoming  position  in  her  own  house,  pend- 
ing the  possible  arrival  of  Sir  Patrick's  reply.  What  does  a 
right-minded  woman  do  when  she  has  reason  to  believe  that 
she  is  cruelly  distrusted  by  the  members  of  her  own  family  ? 
A  right-minded  woman  feels  it  so  acutely  that  she  falls  ill. 
Lady  Lundie  fell  ill  accordingly. 

The  case  being  a  serious  one,  a  medical  practitioner  of  the 
highest  grade  in  the  profession  was  required  to  treat  it.  A 
physician  from  the  neighboring  town  of  Kirkandrew  was  call- 
ed in. 

The  physician  came  in  a  carriage  and  pair,  with  the  neces- 
sary bald  head,  and  the  indispensable  white  cravat.  He  felt 
her  ladyship's  pulse,  and  put  a  few  gentle  questions.  He  turn- 
ed his  back  solemnly,  as  only  a  great  doctor  can,  on  his  own 


390  MAN    AND   WIFE. 

positive  internal  conviction  that  his  patient  had  nothing  what- 
ever the  matter  with  her.  He  said,  with  every  appearance  of 
believing  in  himself,  "  N^erves,  Lady  Lundie.  Repose  in  bed  is 
essentially  necessary.  I  will  write  a  prescription."  He  pre- 
scribed with  perfect  gravity :  Aromatic  Spirits  of  Ammonia — 
15  drops.  Spirits  of  Red  Lavender — 10  drops.  Sirup  of  Or- 
ange Peel — 2  drams.  Camphor  Julep — 1  ounce.  When  he  had 
written,  Misce  fiat  Haustus  (instead  of  Mix  a  Draught) — when 
he  had  added,  Ter  die  Sumendus  (instead  of  To  be  taken  Three 
times  a  day) — and  when  he  had  certified  to  his  own  Latin,  by 
putting  his  initials  at  the  end,  he  had  only  to  make  his  bow ; 
to  slip  two  guineas  into  his  pocket;  and  to  go  his  way,  with  an 
approving  professional  conscience,  in  the  character  of  a  physi- 
cian who  had  done  his  duty. 

Lady  Lundie  was  in  bed.  The  visible  part  of  her  ladyship 
was  perfectly  attired,  with  a  view  to  the  occasion.  A  fillet  of 
superb  white  lace  encircled  her  head.  She  wore  an  adorable 
invalid  jacket  of  white  cambric,  trimmed  with  lace  and  pink 
ribbons.  The  rest  was — bed-clothes.  On  a  table  at  her  side 
stood  the  Red  Lavender  Draught — in  color  soothing  to  the  eye ; 
in  flavor  not  unpleasant  to  the  taste.  A  book  of  devotional 
character  was  near  it.  The  domestic  ledgers,  and  the  kitchen 
report  for  the  day,  were  ranged  modestly  behind  the  devout 
book.  (Not  even  her  ladyship's  nerves,  observe,  were  permit- 
ted to  interfere  with  her  ladyship's  duty.)  A  fan,  a  smelling- 
bottle,  and  a  handkerchief  lay  within  reach  on  the  counterpane. 
The  spacious  room  was  partially  darkened.  One  of  the  lower 
windows  was  open,  affording  her  ladyship  the  necessary  cubic 
supply  of  air.  The  late  Sir  Thomas  looked  at  his  widow,  in  effi- 
gy, from  the  wall  opposite  the  end  of  the  bed.  Not  a  chair 
was  out  of  its  place  ;  not  a  vestige  of  wearing  apparel  dared 
to  show  itself  outside  the  sacred  limits  of  the  wardrobe  and  the 
drawers.  The  sparkling  treasures  of  the  toilet-table  glittered 
in  the  dim  distance.  The  jugs  and  basins  were  of  a  rare  and 
creamy  white ;  spotless  and  beautiful  to  see.  Look  where  you 
might,  you  saw  a  perfect  room.  Then  look  at  the  bed — and 
you  saw  a  perfect  woman,  and  completed  the  picture. 

It  was  the  day  after  Anne's  appearance  at  Swanhaven — to- 
ward the  end  of  the  afternoon. 

Lady  Lundie's  own  maid  opened  the  door  noiselessly,  and 
stole  on  tip-toe  to  the  bedside.  Her  ladyship's  eyes  were 
closed.     Her  ladyship  suddenly  opened  them. 

"  Not  asleep,  Hopkins.     Suffering.     What  is  it  ?" 

Hopkins  laid  two  cards  on  the  counterpane.  "Mrs.  Dela- 
mayn,  my  lady — and  Mi-s.  Glenarm." 

"  They  were  told  I  was  ill,  of  course?" 


MAN    AND    WIFE.  391 

"  Yes,  my  lady.  Mrs.  Glenarm  sent  for  me.  She  went  ii.oO 
the  library,  and  wrote  this  note."  Hopkins  produced  the  note, 
neatly  folded  in  three-cornered  form. 

"  Have  they  gone  ?" 

"  'No,  my  lady.  Mrs.  Glenarm  told  me  Yes  or  No  would  do 
for  answer,  if  you  could  only  have  the  goodness  to  read  this." 

"Thoughtless  of  Mrs.  Glenarm — at  a  time  when  the  doctor 
insists  on  perfect  repose,"  said  Lady  Lundie.  "  It  doesn't  mat- 
ter.    One  sacrifice  more  or  less  is  of  very  little  consequence." 

She  fortified  herself  by  an  application  of  the  smelling-bottle, 
and  opened  the  note.     It  ran  thus  : 

"  So  grieved,  dear  Lady  Lundie,  to  hear  that  you  are  a  pris- 
oner in  your  room  !  I  had  taken  the  opportunity  of  calling 
with  Mrs.  Delamayn,  in  the  hope  that  I  might  be  able  to  ask 
you  a  question.  Will  your  inexhaustible  kindness  forgive  me 
if  I  ask  it  in  writing  ?  Have  you  had  any  unexpected  news 
of  Mr.  Arnold  Briukworth  lately  ?  I  mean,  have  you  heard 
any  thing  about  him  which  has  taken  you  very  much  by  sur- 
prise? I  have  a  serious  reason  for  asking  this.  I  will  tell 
you  what  it  is,  the  moment  you  are  able  to  see  me.  Until 
then,  one  word  of  answer  is  all  I  expect.  Send  word  down — 
Yes,  or  No.    A  thousand  apologies — and  pray  get  better  soon !" 

The  singular  question  contained  in  this  note  suggested  one 
of  two  inferences  to  Lady  Lundie's  mind.  Either  Mrs.  Glen- 
arm had  heard  a  report  of  the  unexpected  return  of  the  mar- 
ried couple  to  England— or  she  was  in  the  far  more  interest- 
ing and  important  position  of  possessing  a  clue  to  the  secret 
of  what  was  going  on  under  the  surface  at  Ham  Farm.  The 
phrase  used  in  the  note,  "  I  have  a  serious  reason  for  asking 
this,"  appeared  to  favor  the  latter  of  the  two  interpretations. 
Impossible  as  it  seemed  to  be  that  Mrs.  Glenarm  could  know 
something  about  Arnold  of  which  Lady  Lundie  was  in  abso- 
lute ignorance,  her  ladyship's  curiosity  (already  powerfully  ex- 
cited by  Blanche's  mysterious  letter)  was  only  to  be  quieted 
by  obtaining  the  necessary  explanation  forthwith,  at  a  person- 
al interview. 

"  Hopkins,"  she  said,  "  I  must  see  Mrs.  Glenarm." 

Hopkins  respectfully  held  up  her  hands  in  horror.  Com- 
pany in  the  bedroom  in  the  present  state  of  her  ladyship's 
health ! 

"  A  matter  of  duty  is  involved  in  this,  Hopkins.  Give  me 
the  glass." 

Hopkins  produced  an  elegant  little  hand-mirror.  Lady 
Lundie  carefully  surveyed  herself  in  it  down  to  the  margin  of 
the  bed-clothes.  Above  criticism  in  every  respect  ?  Yes — 
even  when  the  critic  was  a  woman. 

"  Show  Mrs.  Glenarm  up  here.  ' 


392  MAN    AND    WIFE. 

In  a  minute  or  two  more  the  iron-master's  widow  fluttered 
into  the  room — a  little  over-dressed  as  usual ;  and  a  little  pro- 
fuse in  expressions  of  gratitude  for  her  ladyship's  kindness, 
and  of  anxiety  about  her  ladyship's  health.  Lady  Lundie  en- 
dured it  as  long  as  she  could — then  stopped  it  with  a  gesture 
of  polite  remonstrance,  and  came  to  the  point. 

"  Now,  my  dear — about  this  question  in  your  note  ?  Is  it 
possible  you  have  heard  already  that  Arnold  Brinkworth  and 
his  wife  have  come  back  from  Baden  ?"  Mrs.  Glenarm  opened 
her  eyes  in  astonishment.  Lady  Lundie  put  it  more  plainly. 
"  They  were  to  have  gone  on  to  Switzerland,  you  know,  for 
their  wedding  tour,  and  they  suddenly  altered  their  minds,  and 
came  back  to  England  on  Sunday  last." 

"  Dear  Lady  Lundie,  it's  not  that !  Have  you  heai'd  noth- 
ing about  Mr.  Brinkworth  except  what  you  have  just  told 
me  ?" 

"  Nothing." 

There  was  a  pause.  Mrs.  Glenarm  toyed  hesitatingly  with 
her  parasol.  Lady  Lundie  leaned  forward  in  the  bed,  and 
looked  at  her  attentively. 

"  What  have  you  heard  about  him  ?"  she  asked. 

Mrs.  Glenarm  was  embarrassed.  "  It's  so  difficult  to  say," 
she  began. 

"  I  can  bear  any  thing  but  suspense,"  said  Lady  Lundie. 
"  Tell  me  the  worst." 

Mrs.  Glenarm  decided  to  risk  it.  "  Have  you  never  heard," 
she  asked, "  that  Mr.  Brinkworth  might  possibly  have  commit- 
ted himself  with  another  lady  before  he  married  Miss  Lun- 
die?" 

Her  ladyship  first  closed  her  eyes  in  horror,  and  then  search- 
ed blindly  on  the  counterpane  for  the  smelling-bottle.  Mrs. 
Glenarm  gave  it  to  her,  and  waited  to  see  how  the  invalid 
bore  it  before  she  said  any  more. 

"There  are  things  one  must  hear,"  remarked  Lady  Lundie. 
"  I  see  an  act  of  duty  involved  in  this.  No  words  can  describe 
how  you  astonish  me.     Who  told  you  ?" 

"Mr.  Geoffrey  Delamayn  told  me." 

Her  ladyship  applied  for  the  second  time  to  the  smelling- 
bottle.  "Arnold  Brinkworth's  most  intimate  friend  !"  she  ex- 
claimed. "  He  ought  to  know  if  any  body  does.  This  is 
dreadful.     Why  should  Mr.  Geoffrey  Delamayn  tell  you  .^" 

"  I  am  going  to  marry  him,"  answered  Mrs.  Glenarm.  "  That 
is  my  excuse,  dear  Lady  Lundie,  for  troubling  you  in  this  mat- 
ter." 

Lady  Lundie  partially  opened  her  eyes  in  a  state  of  faint 
bewilderment.  "  I  don't  understand,"  she  said.  "  For  Heav- 
en's sake  explain  yourself!" 


MAN    AND   WIFE.  393 

"Haven't  you  heard  about  the  anonymous  letters?" asked 
.'Mrs.  Gleiitirm. 

Yes.  Lady  Lnndie  had  heard  about  the  letters.  But  only 
'  what  the  public  in  general  had  heard.  The  name  of  the  lady 
in  the  background  not  mentioned  ;  and  Mr.  Geoffrey  Dela- 
mayn  assumed  to  be  as  innocent  as  the  babe  unborn.  Any 
mistake  in  that  assumption  ?  "  Give  me  your  hand,  my  poor 
i  dear,  and  confide  it  all  to  me  .^" 

"  He  is  not  quite  innocent,"  said  Mrs.  Glenarm.  "  He  own- 
I  ed  to  a  foolish  flirtation — all  her  doing,  no  doubt.  Of  course, 
I  insisted  on  a  distinct  explanation.  Had  she  really  any  claim 
on  him  ?  Not  the  shadow  of  a  claim.  I  felt  that  I  only  had 
his  word  for  that — and  I  told  him  so.  He  said  he  could  prove 
it — he  said  he  knew  her  to  be  privately  married  already.  Her 
husband  had  disowned  and  deserted  her ;  she  was  at  the  end 
of  her  resources  ;  she  was  desperate  enough  to  attempt  any 
thing.  I  thought  it  all  very  suspicious — until  Geoffrey  men- 
tioned the  man's  name.  That  certainly  proved  that  he  had 
cast  off  his  wife ;  for  I  myself  knew  that  he  had  lately  married 
another  person." 

Lady  Lundie  suddenly  started  up  from  her  pillow — honestly 
agitated  ;  genuinely  alarmed  by  this  time. 

"  Mr.  Delamayn  told  you  the  man's  name  ?"  she  said,  breath- 
lessly. 

"  Yes." 

"  Do  i  know  it  ?" 

"  Don't  ask  me." 

Lady  Lundie  fell  back  on  the  pillow. 

Mrs.  Glenai-m  rose  to  ring  for  help.  Before  she  could  touch 
the  bell,  her  ladyship  had  rallied  again. 

"  Stop  !"  she  cried.  "  I  can  confirm  it !  It's  true,  Mrs.  Glen- 
arm !  it's  true  !  Open  the  silver  box  on  the  toilet-table — you 
will  find  the  key  in  it.  Bring  me  the  top  lettei-.  Here  !  Look 
at  it !  I  got  this  from  Blanche.  Why  have  they  suddenly 
given  up  their  bridal  tour  ?  Why  have  they  gone  back  to  Sir 
Patrick  at  Ham  Farm  ?  Why  have  they  put  me  off  with  an 
infamous  subterfuge  to  account  for  it  ?  I  felt  sure  something 
dreadful  had  happened.  Now  I  know  what  it  is  !"  She  sank 
back  again,  with  closed  eyes,  and  repeated  the  words,  in  a 
fierce  whisper,  to  herself     "  Now  I  know  what  it  is  !" 

Mrs.  Glenarm  read  the  letter.  The  reason  given  for  the  sus- 
piciously-sudden return  of  the  bride  and  bridegroom  was  pal- 
pably a  subterfuge — and,  more  remarkable  still,  the  name  of 
Anne  Silvester  was  connected  with  it.  Mrs.  Glenarm  became 
strongly  agitated  on  her  side. 

"'  This  is  a  confirmation,"  she  said.  "  Mr.  Brinkworth  has 
been  found  out — the  woman  is  married  to  him — Geoffrey  is 


394  MAN    AND    WIFE. 

free.     Oh,  my  dear  friend,  what  a  load  of  anxiety  you  have 
taken  off  my  mind  !     That  vile  wretch — " 

Lady  Lundie  suddenly  opened  her  eyes. 

"  Do  you  mean,"  she  asked,  "  the  woman  who  is  at  the  bot- 
tom of  all  the  mischief?" 

"  Yes.  I  saw  her  yesterday.  She  forced  herself  in  at  Swan- 
haven.  She  called  him  Geoffrey  Delamayn,  She  declared 
herself  a  single  woman.  She  claimed  him  before  my  face  in 
the  most  audacious  manner.  She  shook  my  faith,  Lady  Lundie 
— she  shook  my  faith  in  Geoffrey  !" 

"  Who  is  she  ?" 

"  Who  ?"  echoed  Mrs.  Glenarm.  "  Don't  you  even  know 
that  ?  Why,  her  name  is  repeated  half  a  dozen  times  in  this 
letter !" 

Lady  Lundie  uttered  a  scream  that  rang  through  the  room. 
Mrs.  Glenarm  started  to  her  feet.  The  maid  appeared  at  the 
door  in  terror.  Her  ladyship  motioned  to  the  woman  to  with- 
draw again  instantly,  and  then  pointed  to  Mrs.  Glenarm's  chair. 

"  Sit  down,"  she  said.  "  Let  me  have  a  minute  or  two  of 
quiet.     I  want  nothing  more." 

The  silence  in  the  room  was  unbroken  until  Lady  Lundie 
spoke  again.  She  asked  for  Blanche's  letter.  After  reading 
it  carefully,  she  laid  it  aside,  and  fell  for  a  while  into  deep 
thought. 

''I  have  done  Blanche  an  injustice  !"  she  exclaimed.  "My 
poor  Blanche  I" 

"  You  think  she  knows  nothing  about  it  ?" 

"  I  am  certain  of  it !  You  forget,  Mrs.  Glenarm,  that  this 
horrible  discovery  casts  a  doubt  on  my  stepdaughter's  mar- 
riage. Do  you  think,  if  she  knew  the  truth,  she  would  write 
of  a  wretch  who  has  mortally  injured  her  as  she  writes  here  ? 
They  have  put  her  off  with  the  excuse  that  she  innocently 
sends  to  rue.  I  see  it  as  plainly  as  I  see  you  !  Mr.  Brink- 
worth  and  Sir  Patrick  are  in  league  to  keep  us  both  in  the 
dark.  Dear  child !  I  owe  her  an  atonement.  If  nobody 
else  opens  her  eyes,  I  will  do  it.  Sir  Patrick  shall  land  that 
Blanche  has  a  friend  in  Me  !" 

A  smile — the  dangerous  smile  of  an  inveterately  vindictive 
woman  thoroughly  roused — showed  itself  with  a  furtive  sud- 
denness on  her  face.  Mrs.  Glenarm  was  a  little  startled.  Lady 
Lundie  below  the  surface — as  distinguished  from  Lady  Lundie 
on  the  surface — M'as  not  a  pleasant  object  to  contemplate. 

"  Pray  try  to  compose  yourself,"  said  Mrs.  Glenarm.  "  Dear 
Lady  Lundie,  you  frighten  me  !" 

The  bland  surface  of  her  ladyship  appeared  smoothly  once 
more  ;  drawn  back,  as  it  were,  over  the  hidden  inner  self,  which 
it  had  left  for  the  moment  exposed  to  view. 


MAN    AND    WIFE.  895 

"Forgive  me  for  feeling  it!"  she  said,  with  the  patient 
sweetness  which  so  eminently  distinguished  her  in  times  of 
trial.  "  It  falls  a  little  heavily  on  a  poor  sick  woman — inno- 
cent of  all  suspicion,  and  insulted  by  the  most  heartless  neg- 
lect. Don't  let  me  distress  you.  I  shall  rally,  my  dear;  I 
shall  rally !  In  this  dreadful  calamity — this  abyss  of  crime 
and  misery  and  deceit — I  have  no  one  to  depend  on  but  my- 
self For  Blanche's  sake,  the  whole  thing  must  be  cleared  up 
— probed,  my  dear,  probed  to  the  depths.  Blanche  must  take 
a  position  that  is  worthy  of  her.  Blanche  must  insist  on  her 
rights,  under  My  protection.  Never  mind  what  I  suifer,  or 
what  I  sacrifice.  There  is  a  work  of  justice  for  poor  weak 
Me  to  do.  It  shall  be  done  !"  said  her  ladyship,  fanning  her- 
self with  an  aspect  of  illimitable  resolution.  "It  shall  be 
done  !" 

"  But,  Lady  Lundie,  what  can  you  do  ?  They  are  all  away 
in  the  South.     And  as  for  that  abominable  woman — " 

Lady  Lundie  touched  Mrs.  Glenarm  on  the  shoulder  with 
her  fan. 

"  I  have  my  surprise  in  store,  dear  friend,  as  well  as  you. 
That  abominable  woman  was  employed  as  Blanche's  governess 
in  this  house.  Wait  !  that  is  not  all.  She  left  us  suddenly — 
ran  away — on  the  pretense  of  being  privately  married.  I  know 
where  she  went.  I  can  trace  what  she  did.  I  can  find  out 
who  was  with  her.  I  can  follow  Mr.  Brinkworth's  proceed- 
ings, behind  Mr.  Brinkworth's  back.  I  can  search  out  the 
truth,  without  depending  on  people  compromised  in  this  black 
business,  whose  interest  it  is  to  deceive  me.  And  I  will  do  it 
to-day  !"  She  closed  the  fan  with  a  sharp  snap  of  triumph, 
and  settled  herself  on  the  pillow  in  placid  enjoyment  of  her 
dear  friend's  surprise. 

Mrs.  Glenarm  drew  confidentially  closer  to  the  bedside. 
"  How  can  you  manage  it  ?"  she  asked,  eagerly.  "  Don't  think 
me  curious.  I  have  my  interest,  too,  in  getting  at  the  truth. 
Don't  leave  me  out  of  it,  pray  !" 

"Can  you  come  back  to-morrow  at  this  time?" 

"Yes!  yes!" 

"  Come,  then — and  you  shall  know." 

"  Can  I  be  of  any  use  ?" 

"Not  at  present." 

"  Can  my  uncle  be  of  any  use  ?" 

"  Do  you  know  where  to  communicate  with  Captain  Newen- 
den  ?" 

"  Yes — he  is  staying  with  some  friends  in  Sussex." 

"We  may  possibly  want  his  assistance.  I  can't  tell  yet. 
Don't  keep  Mrs.  Delamayn  waiting  any  longer,  my  dear.  I 
shall  expect  you  to-morrow." 


396  MAN    AND    WIFE. 

They  exchanged  an  affectionate  embrace.  Lady  Lundie  was 
left  alone. 

Her  ladyship  resigned  herself  to  meditation,  with  frowning 
brow  and  close-shut  lips.  She  looked  her  full  age,  and  a  year 
or  two  more,  as  she  lay  thinking,  with  her  head  on  her  hand, 
and  her  elbow  on  the  pillow.  After  committing  herself  to  the 
physician  (and  to  the  red  lavender  draught),  the  commonest 
regard  for  consistency  made  it  necessary  that  she  should  keep 
her  bed  for  that  day.  And  yet  it  was  essential  that  the  pro- 
posed inquiries  should  be  instantly  set  on  foot.  On  the  one 
hand,  the  problem  was  not  an  easy  one  to  solve ;  on  the  other, 
her  ladyship  was  not  an  easy  one  to  beat.  How  to  send  for 
the  landlady  at  Craig  Fernie,  without  exciting  any  special 
suspicion  or  remark — was  the  question  before  her.  In  less 
than  five  minutes  she  had  looked  back  into  her  memory  of 
current  events  at  Windygates — and  had  solved  it. 

Her  first  proceeding  Avas  to  ring  the  bell  for  her  maid. 

"  I  am  afraid  I  frightened  you,  Hopkins.  The  state  of  my 
nerves.  Mrs.  Glenarm  was  a  little  sudden  with  some  news 
that  surprised  me.  I  am  better  now — and  able  to  attend  to 
the  household  matters.  There  is  a  mistake  in  the  butcher's 
account.     Send  the  cook  here." 

She  took  up  the  domestic  ledger  and  the  kitchen  report; 
corrected  the  butcher ;  cautioned  the  cook,  and  disposed  of  all 
arrears  of  domestic  business  before  Hopkins  was  summoned 
again.  Having,  in  this  way,  dexterously  prevented  the  woman 
from  connecting  any  thing  that  her  mistress  said  or  did,  after 
Mrs.  Glenarm's  departure,  with  any  thing  that  might  have 
passed  during  Mrs.  Glenarm's  visit.  Lady  Lundie  felt  herself  at 
liberty  to  pave  the  way  for  the  investigation  on  which  she  was 
determined  to  enter  before  she  slept  that  night. 

"  So  much  for  the  indoor  arrangements,"  she  said.  "  You 
must  be  my  prime  minister,  Hopkins,  while  I  lie  helpless  here. 
Is  there  any  thing  wanted  by  the  people  out-of-doors?  The 
coachman?     The  gardener?" 

"  I  have  just  seen  the  gardener,  my  lady.  He  came  with 
last  week's  accounts.  I  told  him  he  couldn't  see  your  ladyship 
to-day." 

"  Quite  right.     Had  he  any  report  to  make  ?" 

"No,  my  lady." 

"Surely,  there  was  something  I  wanted  to  say  to  him — or 
to  somebody  else  ?  My  memorandum-book,  Hopkins.  In  the 
basket,  on  that  chair.  Why  wasn't  the  basket  placed  by  my 
bedside?" 

Hopkins  brought  the  memorandum  -  book.  Lady  Lundie 
consulted  it  (without  the  slightest  necessity),  with  the  same 
masterly  gravity  exhibited  by  the  doctor  when  he  wrote  her 
prescription  (without  the  slightest  necessity  also). 


MAN   AND   WIFE.  397 

"Here  it  is,"  she  said,  recovering  the  lost  remembrance, 
"  Not  the  gardener,  but  the  gardener's  wife.  A  memorandum 
to  speak  to  her  about  Mrs.  Inchbare.  Observe,  Hopkins,  the 
association  of  ideas.  Mrs.  Inchbare  is  associated  with  the 
poultry ;  the  poultry  are  associated  with  the  gardener's  wife ; 
the  gardener's  wife  is  associated  with  the  gardener — and  so 
the  gardener  gets  into  my  head.  Do  you  see  it  ?  I  am  al- 
ways trying  to  improve  your  mind.  You  do  see  it  ?  Very 
well.     Now  about  Mrs.  Inchbare.     Has  she  been  here  again  ?" 

"  No,  my  lady." 

"  I  am  not  at  all  sure,  Hopkins,  that  I  was  right  in  declin- 
ing to  consider  the  message  Mrs.  Inchbare  sent  to  me  about 
the  poultry.  Why  shouldn't  she  offer  to  take  any  fowls  that 
I  can  spare  off  my  hands  ?  She  is  a  respectable  woman;  and 
it  is  important  to  me  to  live  on  good  terms  w4th  all  my  neigh- 
bors, great  and  small.  Has  she  got  a  poultry-yard  of  her  own 
at  Craig  Fernie  ?" 

"  Yes,  my  lady.     And  beautifully  kept,  I  am  told." 

"  I  really  don't  see — on  reflection,  Hopkins  —  why  I  should 
hesitate  to  deal  with  Mrs.  Inchbare,  (I  don't  think  it  beneath 
me  to  sell  the  game  killed  on  my  estate  to  the  poulterer.) 
What  was  it  she  wanted  to  buy  ?  Some  of  my  black  Spanish 
fowls?" 

"Yes,  my  lady.  Your  ladyship's  black  Spaniards  are  fa- 
mous all  round  the  neighborhood.  Nobody  has  got  the  breed. 
And  Mrs.  Inchbare — " 

"  Wants  to  share  the  distinction  of  having  the  breed  with 
me,"  said  Lady  Lundie.  "  I  won't  appear  ungracious.  I  will 
see  her  myself,  as  soon  as  I  am  a  little  better,  and  tell  her  that 
I  have  changed  my  mind.  Send  one  of  the  men  to  Craig  Fer- 
nie with  a  message.  I  can't  keep  a  trifling  matter  of  this  sort 
in  my  memory — send  him  at  once,  or  I  may  forget  it.  He  is 
to  say  I  am  willing  to  see  Mrs.  Inchbare,  about  the  fowls,  the 
first  time  she  finds  it  convenient  to  come  this  way." 

"  I  am  afraid,  my  lady — Mrs.  Inchbare's  heart  is  so  set  on 
the  black  Spaniards — she  will  find  it  convenient  to  come  this 
way  at  once  as  fast  as  her  feet  can  carry  her." 

"  In  that  case,  you  must  take  her  to  the  gardener's  wife. 
Say  she  is  to  have  some  eggs — on  condition,  of  course,  of 
paving  the  price  for  them.     If  she  does  come,  mind  I  hear 

of  It," 

Hopkins  withdrew.  Hopkins's  mistress  reclined  on  her  com- 
fortable pillows,  and  fanned  herself  gently.  The  vindictive 
smile  re-appeared  on  her  face.  "  I  fancy  I  shall  be  well  enough 
to  see  Mrs.  .Inchbare,"  she  thought  to  herself.  "And  it  is  just 
possible  that  the  conversation  may  get  beyond  the  relative 
merits  of  her  poultry-yard  and  mine." 


398  MAN    AND    WIFE, 

A  lapse  of  little  more  than  two  hours  proved  Hopkins's  esti- 
mate of  the  latent  enthusiasm  in  Mrs.  Inchbare's  character  to 
have  been  correctly  formed.  The  eager  landlady  appeared  at 
Windygates  on  the  heels  of  the  returning  servant.  Among 
the  long  list  of  human  weaknesses,  a  passion  for  poultry  seems 
to  have  its  practical  advantages  (in  the  shape  of  eggs)  as  com- 
pared with  the  more  occult  frenzies  for  collecting  snuff-boxes 
and  fiddles,  and  amassing  autographs  and  old  postage-stamps. 
When  the  mistress  of  Craig  Fernie  was  duly  announced  to  the 
mistress  of  Windygates,  Lady  Lundie  developed  a  sense  of 
humor  for  the  first  time  in  her  life.  Her  ladyship  was  feebly 
merry  (the  result,  no  doubt,  of  the  exhilarating  properties  of 
the  red  lavender  draught)  on  the  subject  of  Mrs.  Inchbare  and 
the  Spanish  fowls. 

"  Most  ridiculous,  Hopkins  !  This  poor  woman  must  be  suf- 
fering from  a  determination  of  poultry  to  the  brain.  Ill  as  I 
am,  I  should  have  thought  that  nothing  could  amuse  me.  But, 
really,  this  good  creature  starting  up  and  rushing  here,  as  you 
say,  as  fast  as  her  feet  can  carry  her— it's  impossible  to  resist 
it !  I  positively  think  I  must  see  Mrs.  Inchbare.  With  my 
active  habits,  this  imprisonment  to  my  room  is  dreadful.  I 
can  neither  sleep  nor  read.  Any  thing,  Hopkins,  to  divert  my 
mind  from  myself  It's  easy  to  get  rid  of  her  if  she  is  too 
much  for  me.     Send  her  up." 

Mrs.  Inchbare  made  her  appearance,  courtesying  deferential- 
ly ;  amazed  at  the  condescension  which  admitted  her  within 
the  hallowed  precincts  of  Lady  Lundie's  room. 

"  Take  a  chair,"  said  her  ladyship,  graciously.  "  I  am  suffer- 
ing from  illness,  as  you  perceive." 

"  My  certie !  sick  or  well,  yer  leddy ship's  a  braw  sight  to 
gee  !"  returned  Mrs.  Inchbare,  profoundly  impressed  by  the 
elegant  costume  which  illness  assumes  when  illness  appears  in 
the  regions  of  high  life. 

"  I  am  far  from  being  in  a  fit  state  to  receive  any  body," 
proceeded  Lady  Lundie.  "  But  I  had  a  motive  for  wishing  to 
speak  to  you  when  you  next  came  to  my  house.  I  failed  to 
treat  a  proposal  you  made  to  me,  a  short  time  since,  in  a  friend- 
ly and  neighborly  way.  I  beg  you  to  understand  that  I  regret 
having  forgotten  the  consideration  due  from  a  person  in  my 
position  to  a  person  in  yours.  I  am  obliged  to  say  this  under 
very  unusual  circumstances,"  added  her  ladyship,  with  a  glance 
round  her  magnificent  bedroom,  "  through  your  unexpected 
promptitude  in  favoring  me  with  a  call.  You  have  lost  no 
time,  Mrs.  Inchbare,  in  profiting  by  the  message  which  I  had 
the  pleasure  of  sending  to  you." 

"  Eh,  my  leddy,  I  wasna  that  sure  (yer  leddyship  having 
ance  changed  yer  mind)  but  that  ye  might  e'en  change  again 


MAN    AND    WIFE.  399 

if  I  failed  to  strike,  as  they  say,  while  the  iron's  het.  I  crave 
yer  pardon,  I'm  sure,  if  I  ha'  been  ower  hasty.  The  pride  o' 
my  hairt's  in  my  powltry — and  the  '  black  Spaniards'  (as  they 
ca'  tliem)  are  a  sair  temptation  to  me  to  break  the  tenth  com- 
mandment, sae  lang  as  they're  a'  in  yer  leddyship's  possession, 
and  nane  o'  them  in  mine." 

"  I  am  shocked  to  hear  that  I  have  been  the  innocent  cause 
of  your  falling  into  temptation,  Mrs.  Inchbare  !  Make  your 
proposal — and  I  shall  be  happy  to  meet  it,  if  I  can." 

"I  must  e'en  be  content  vvi'  what  yer  leddyship  will  conde- 
scend on.     A  haitch  o'  eggs  if  I  can  come  by  naething  else." 

"There  is  something  else  you  would  prefer  to  a  hatch  of 
eggs  ?" 

"  I  wad  prefer,"  said  Mrs.  Inchbare,  modestly,  "  a  cock  and 
twa  pullets." 

"  Open  the  case  on  the  table  behind  you,"  said  Lady  Lundie, 
"  and  you  will  find  some  writing-paper  inside.  Give  me  a 
sheet  of  it — and  the  pencil  out  of  the  tray." 

Eagerly  watched  by  Mrs.  Inchbare,  she  wrote  an  order  to 
the  poultry-woman,  and  held  it  out  with  a  gracious  smile. 

"Take  that  to  the  gardener's  wife.  If  you  agree  with  her 
about  the  price,  you  can  have  the  cock  and  the  two  pullets." 

Mrs.  Inchbare  opened  her  lips — no  doubt  to  express  the  ut- 
most extremity  of  human  gratitude.  Before  she  had  said  three 
words,  Lady  Luudie's  impatience  to  reach  the  end  which  she 
had  kept  in  view  from  the  time  when  Mrs.  Glenarm  had  left  the 
house  burst  the  bounds  which  had  successfully  restrained  it 
thus  far.  Stopping  the  landlady  without  ceremony,  she  fairly 
forced  the  conversation  to  the  subject  of  Anne  Silvester's  pro- 
ceedings at  the  Craig  Fernie  inn. 

"  How  are  you  getting  on  at  the  hotel,  Mrs.  Inchbare  ? 
Plenty  of  tourists,  I  suppose,  at  this  time  of  year?" 

"Full,  my  leddy  (praise  Providence),  frae  the  basement  to 
the  ceiling." 

"  You  had  a  visitor,  I  think,  some  time  since  of  whom  I  know 
something?  A  person — "  She  paused,  and  put  a  strong  con- 
straint on  herself.  There  was  no  alternative  but  to  yield  to 
the  hard  necessity  of  making  her  inquiry  intelligible.  "A 
lady,"  she  added,  "  who  came  to  you  about  the  middle  of  last 
month." 

"  Could  yer  leddyship  condescend  on  her  name  ?" 

Lady  Lundie  put  a  still  stronger  constraint  on  herself. 
"  Silvester,"  she  said,  sharply. 

"  Presairve  us  a' !"  cried  Mrs.  Inchbare.  "  It  will  never  be 
the  same  that  cam'  driftin'  in  by  hersel' — wi'  a  bit  bag  in  her 
hand,  and  a  husband  left  daidling  an  hour  or  mair  on  the  road 
behind  her?" 


400  MAN    AND    "WIFE. 

"  I  have  no  doubt  it  is  the  same." 

"  Will  she  be  a  freend  o'  your  leddyship's  ?"  asked  Mrs.  Inch- 
bare,  feeling  her  ground  cautiously. 

"  Certainly  not !"  said  Lady  Lundie.  "  I  felt  a  passing 
curiosity  about  her — nothing  more." 

Mrs.  Inchbare  looked  relieved.  "To  tell  ye  truth,  my  led- 
dy,  there  was  nae  love  lost  between  us.  She  had  a  maisterfu' 
temper  o'  her  ain — and  I  was  weel  pleased  when  I'd  seen  the 
last  of  her." 

"  I  can  quite  understand  that,  Mrs.  Inchbare — I  know  some- 
thing of  her  temper  myself  Did  I  understand  you  to  say  that 
she  came  to  your  hotel  alone,  and  that  her  husband  joined  her 
shortly  afterward  ?" 

"  E'en  sae,  yer  leddyship.  I  was  no'  free  to  gi'  her  house- 
room  in  the  hottle  till  her  husband  daidled  in  at  her  heels  and 
answered  for  her." 

"  I  fancy  I  must  have  seen  her  husband,"  said  Lady  Lundie. 
"  What  sort  of  a  man  was  he  ?" 

Mrs.  Inchbare  replied  in  much  the  same  words  which  she 
had  used  in  answering  the  similar  question  put  by  Sir  Patrick. 

"  Eh  !  he  was  ower  young  for  the  like  o'  her.  A  pratty  man, 
my  leddy — betwixt  tall  and  short;  wi'  bonny  brown  eyes  and 
cheeks,  and  fine  coal-blaik  hair.  A  nice  douce-spoken  lad.  I 
hae  naething  to  say  against  him — except  that  he  cam'  late  one 
day,  and  took  leg-bail  betimes  the  next  morning,  and  left  mad- 
am behind,  a  load  on  my  hands." 

The  answer  produced  precisely  the  same  eiFect  on  Lady  Lun- 
die which  it  had  produced  on  Sir  Patrick.  She,  also,  felt  that 
it  was  too  vaguely  like  too  many  young  men  of  no  uncommon 
humor  and  complexion  to  be  relied  on.  But  her  ladyship  pos- 
sessed one  immense  advantage  over  her  brother-in-law  in 
attempting  to  arrive  at  the  truth.  She  suspected  Arnold — 
and  it  was  possible,  in  her  case,  to  assist  Mrs.  Inchbare's  mem- 
ory by  hints  contributed  from  her  own  superior  resources  of 
experience  and  observation. 

"  Had  he  any  thing  about  him  of  the  look  and  way  of  a 
sailor?"  she  asked.  "And  did  you  notice,  when  you  spoke  to 
him,  that  he  had  a  habit  of  playing  with  a  locket  on  his  watch- 
chain  ?" 

"  There  he  is,  het  aff  to  a  T !"  cried  Mrs.  Inchbare.  "  Yer 
leddyship's  weel  acquented  wi'  him — there's  nae  doot  o'  that." 

"  I  thought  I  had  seen  him,"  said  Lady  Lundie.  "  A  modest, 
well-behaved  young  man,  Mrs.  Inchbare,  as  you  say.  Don't 
let  me  keep  you  any  longer  from  the  poultry-yard.  I  am 
transgressing  the  doctor's  orders  in  seeing  any  body.  We 
quite  understand  each  other  now,  don't  we  ?  Very  glad  to 
have  seen  you.     Good-evening." 


MAN   AND    WIFE.  401 

So  she  dismissed  Mrs.  Inchbare,  when  Mrs.  Inchbare  had 
served  her  purpose. 

Most  women,  in  her  position,  would  have  been  content  with 
the  information  which  she  had  now  obtained.  But  Lady  Lun- 
die — having  a  man  like  Sir  Patrick  to  deal  with — determined 
to  be  doubly  sure  of  her  facts  before  she  ventured  on  interfer- 
ing at  Ham  Farm.  She  had  learned  from  Mrs.  Inchbare  that 
the  so-called  husband  of  Anne  Silvester  had  joined  her  at  Craig 
Fernie  on  the  day  when  she  arrived  at  the  inn,  and  had  left  lier 
again  the  next  morning.  Anne  had  made  her  escape  from 
Windygates  on  the  occasion  of  the  lawn-party — that  is  to  say, 
on  the  fourteenth  of  August.  On  the  same  day  Arnold  Brink- 
worth  had  taken  his  departure  for  the  purpose  of  visiting  the 
Scotch  property  left  to  him  by  his  aunt.  If  Mrs.  Inchbare  was 
to  be  depended  on,  he  must  have  gone  to  Craig  Fernie  instead 
of  going  to  his  appointed  destination  —  and  must,  therefore, 
have  arrived  to  visit  his  house  and  lands  one  day  later  than 
the  day  which  he  had  originally  set  apart  for  that  purpose. 
If  this  fact  could  be  proved  on  the  testimony  of  a  disinterested 
witness,  the  case  against  Arnold  would  be  strengthened  tenfold; 
and  Lady  Lundie  might  act  on  her  discovery  with  something 
like  a  certainty  that  her  information  was  to  be  relied  on. 

After  a  little  consideration  she  decided  on  sending  a  mes- 
senger with  a  note  of  inquiry  addressed  to  Arnold's  steward. 
The  apology  she  invented  to  excuse  and  account  for  the  strange- 
ness of  the  proposed  question  referred  it  to  a  little  family  dis- 
cussion as  to  the  exact  date  of  Arnold's  arrival  at  his  estate, 
and  to  a  friendly  wager  in  which  the  difference  of  opinion  had 
ended.  If  the  steward  could  state  whether  his  employer  had 
arrived  on  the  fourteenth  or  on  the  fifteenth  of  August,  that 
was  all  that  would  be  wanted  to  decide  the  question  in  dispute. 

Having  written  in  those  terms.  Lady  Lundie  gave  the  neces- 
sary directions  for  having  the  note  delivered  at  the  earliest 
possible  hour  on  the  next  morning;  the  messenger  being  or- 
dered to  make  his  way  back  to  Windygates  by  the  first  return 
train  on  the  same  day. 

This  arranged,  her  ladyship  was  free  to  refresh  herself  with 
another  dose  of  the  red  lavender  draught,  and  to  sleep  the 
sleep  of  the  just,  who  close  their  eyes  with  the  composing  con- 
viction that  they  have  done  their  duty. 

The  events  of  the  next  day  at  Windygates  succeeded  each 
other  in  due  course,  as  follows: 

The  post  arrived,  and  brought  no  reply  from  Sir  Patrick. 
Lady  Lundie  entered  that  incident  on  her  mental  register  of 
debts  owed  by  her  brother-in-law — to  be  paid,  with  interest, 
when  the  day  of  reckoning  came, 

26 


402  MAN    AND   WIPE. 

Next  in  order  occurred  the  return  of  the  messenger  with  the 
steward's  answer. 

He  had  referred  to  his  Diary ;  and  he  had  discovered  that 
Mr.  Brinkworth  had  written  beforehand  to  announce  his  ar- 
rival at  his  estate  for  the  fourteenth  of  August — but  that  he 
had  not  actually  appeared  until  the  fifteenth.  The  one  dis- 
covery needed  to  substantiate  Mrs.  Inchbare's  evidence  being 
now  in  Lady  Lundie's  possession,  she  decided  to  allow  another 
day  to  pass — on  the  chance  that  Sir  Patrick  might  alter  his 
mind,  and  write  to  her.  If  no  letter  arrived,  and  if  nothing 
more  was  received  from  Blanche,  she  resolved  to  leave  Windy- 
gates  by  the  next  morning's  train,  and  to  try  the  bold  experi- 
ment of  personal  interference  at  Ham  Farm. 

The  third  in  the  succession  of  events  was  the  appearance  of 
the  doctor  to  pay  his  professional  visit. 

A  severe  shock  awaited  him.  He  found  his  patient  cured 
by  the  draught!  It  was  contrary  to  all  rule  and  precedent; 
it  savored  of  quackery — the  red  lavender  liad  no  business  to 
do  what  the  red  lavender  had  done — but  there  she  was,  never- 
theless, up  and  dressed,  and  contemplating  a  journey  to  Lon- 
don on  the  next  day  but  one.  "An  act  of  duty,  doctor,  is  in- 
volved in  this — whatever  the  sacrifice,  I  must  go  !"  No  other 
explanation  could  be  obtained.  The  patient  was  plainly  de- 
termined— nothing  remained  for  the  physician  but  to  retreat 
with  unimpaired  dignity,  and  a  paid  fee.  He  did  it.  "  Our 
art,"  he  explained  to  Lady  Lundie  in  confidence,  "  is  nothing 
after  all,  but  a  choice  between  alternatives.  For  instance.  I 
see  you — not  cured,  as  you  think — but  sustained  by  abnormal 
excitement.  I  have  to  ask  which  is  the  least  of  the  two  evils 
— to  risk  letting  you  travel,  or  to  irritate  you  by  keeping  you 
at  home.  With  your  constitution,  we  must  risk  the  journey. 
Be  careful  to  keep  the  window  of  the  carriage  up  on  the  side 
on  which  the  wind  blows.  Let  the  extremities  be  moderately 
warm,  and  the  mind  easy  —  and  pray  don't  omit  to  provide 
yourself  with  a  second  bottle  of  the  Mixture  before  you  start." 
He  made  his  bow,  as  before — he  slipped  two  guineas  into  his 
pocket,  as  before — and  he  went  his  way,  as  before,  with  an  ap- 
proving conscience,  in  the  character  of  a  physician  who  had 
done  his  duty.  (What  an  enviable  profession  is  Medicine ! 
And  why  don't  we  all  belong  to  it  ?) 

The  last  of  the  events  was  the  arrival  of  Mrs.  Glenarm. 

"  Well,"  she  began,  eagerly,  "  what  news?" 

The  narrative  of  her  ladyship's  discoveries — recited  at  full 
length  ;  and  the  announcement  of  her  ladyship's  resolution — 
declared  in  the  most  uncompromising  terms — raised  Mrs.  Glen- 
arm's  excitement  to  the  highest  pitch. 

"  You  go  to  town  on  Saturd^,v  ?"  she  said.     "  I  will  go  with 


I 


MAN    AND    WIFE.  403 

you.  Ever  since  that  woman  declared  she  should  be  in  Lon- 
don before  me,  I  have  been  dying  to  hasten  ray  journey — and 
it  is  such  an  opportunity  to  go  with  you  !  I  can  easily  raan- 
age  it.  My  uncle  and  I  were  to  have  met  in  London,  early 
next  week,  for  the  foot-race.  I  have  only  to  write  and  tell 
him  of  my  change  of  plans, — By-the-bye,  talking  of  my  uncle,  I 
have  heard,  since  I  saw  you,  from  the  lawyers  at  Perth." 

"  More  anonymous  letters  ?" 

"One  more  —  received  by  the  lawyers  this  time.  My  un- 
known correspondent  has  written  to  them  to  withdraw  his 
proposal,  and  to  announce  that  he  has  left  Perth.  The  law- 
yers recommended  me  to  stop  my  uncle  from  spending  money 
uselessly  in  employing  the  London  police.  I  have  forwarded 
their  letter  to  the  captain  ;  and  he  will  probably  be  in  town  to 
see  his  solicitors  as  soon  as  I  get  there  with  you.  So  much  for 
what  I  have  done  in  this  matter.  Dear  Lady  Lundie — when 
we  are  at  our  journey's  end,  what  do  you  mean  to  do  ?" 

"  My  course  is  plain,"  answered  her  ladyship,  calmly.  "  Sir 
Patrick  will  hear  from  me,  on  Sunday  morning  next,  at  Ham 
Farm." 

"Telling  him  what  you  have  found  out?" 

"  Certainly  not !  Telling  him  that  I  find  myself  called  to 
London  by  business,  and  that  I  propose  paying  him  a  short 
visit  on  Monday  next." 

"  Of  course,  he  must  receive  you  ?" 

"  I  think  there  is  no  doubt  of  that.  Even  his  hatred  of  his 
brother's  widow  can  hardly  go  to  the  length — after  leaving 
ray  letter  unanswered — of  closing  his  doors  against  rae  next." 

"How  will  you  manage  it  when  you  get  there?" 

"  When  I  get  there,  ray  dear,  I  shall  be  breathing  an  atmos- 
phere of  treachery  and  deceit,  and,  for  my  poor  child's  sake 
(abhorrent  as  all  dissiraulation  is  to  me),  I  must  be  careful  what 
I  do.  Not  a  word  will  escape  ray  lips  until  I  have  first  seen 
Blanche  in  private.  However  painful  it  may  be,  I  shall  not 
shrink  from  my  duty,  if  ray  duty  corapels  rae  to  open  her  eyes 
to  the  truth.  Sir  Patrick  and  Mr.  Brinkworth  will  have  sorae- 
body  else  besides  an  inexperienced  young  creature  to  deal  with 
on  Monday  next.     I  shall  be  there." 

With  that  forraidable  announceraent.  Lady  Lundie  closed 
the  conversation  ;  and  Mrs.  Glenarra  rose  to  take  her  leave. 

"  We  raeet  at  the  Junction,  dear  Lady  Lundie?" 

"  At  the  Junction,  on  Saturday." 


404  MAN    AXD    WIFE. 


ELEVENTH  SCENE.— SIR  PATRICK'S  HOUSE. 
CHAPTER  THE  FORTY-SECOND. 

THE    SMOKING-KOOM    WINDOW. 

"  I  can't  believe  it !  I  won't  believe  it  ?  You're  trying  to 
part  me  from  my  husband — you're  trying  to  set  me  against 
my  dearest  friend.  It's  infamous.  It's  horrible.  What  have 
I  done  to  you  ?  Oh,  my  head  !  my  head  !  Are  you  trying  to 
drive  me  mad  ?" 

Pale  and  wild ;  her  hands  twisted  in  her  hair ;  her  feet  hur- 
rying her  aimlessly  to  and  fro  in  the  room  —  so  Blanche  an- 
swered her  stepmother,  when  the  object  of  Lady  Lundie's  pil- 
grimage had  been  accomplished,  and  the  cruel  truth  had  been 
plainly  told. 

Her  ladyship  sat,  superbly  composed,  looking  out  through 
the  window  at  the  placid  landscape  of  woods  and  fields  which 
surrounded  Ham  Farm. 

"  I  was  prepared  for  this  outbreak,"  she  said,  sadly.  "  These 
wild  words  relieve  your  overburdened  heart,  my  poor  child. 
I  can  wait,  Blanche — I  can  wait !" 

Blanche  stopped,  and  confronted  Lady  Lundie. 

"You  and  I  never  liked  each  other,"  she  said.  "I  wrote 
you  a  pert  letter  from  this  place.  I  have  always  taken  Anne's 
part  against  you.  I  have  shown  you  plainly — rudely,  I  dare 
say — that  I  was  glad  to  be  married  and  get  away  from  you. 
This  is  not  your  revenge,  is  it  ?" 

"  Oh,  Blanche,  Blanche,  what  thoughts  to  think  !  what  words 
to  say !     I  can  only  pray  for  you." 

"I  am  mad.  Lady  Lundie.  You  bear  with  mad  people. 
Bear  with  me,  I  have  been  hardly  more  than  a  fortnight 
married.  I  love  him — I  love  her — with  all  my  heart.  Re- 
member what  you  have  told  me  about  them.  Remember! 
remember !  remember !" 

She  reiterated  the  words  with  a  low  cry  of  pain.  Her  hands 
went  up  to  her  head  again  ;  and  she  returned  restlessly  to  pa- 
cing this  way  and  that  in  the  room. 

Lady  Lundie  tried  the  effect  of  a  gentle  remonstrance.  "  For 
your  own  sake,"  she  said,  "  don't  persist  in  estranging  your- 
self from  me.  In  this  dreadful  trial,  I  am  the  only  friend  you 
Lave." 


MAX    AND   YCIPE.  4-05 

Blanche  came  back  to  her  stepmother's  chair,  and  looked 
at  her  steadily,  in  silence.  Lady  Lundie  submitted  to  inspec- 
tion— and  bore  it  perfectly. 

"  Look  into  my  heart,"  she  said,     "  Blanche  !  it  bleeds  for 

Blanche  heard,  without  heeding.  Her  mind  was  painfully 
intent  on  its  own  thoughts.  "You  are  a  religious  woman," 
she  said,  abruptly.  "Will  you  swear  on  your  Bible, that  what 
you  told  me  is  true  ?" 

"J/y  Bible  !"  repeated  Lady  Lundie,  with  sorrowful  empha- 
sis. "  Oh,  my  child  !  have  you  no  part  in  that  precious  inher- 
itance ?     Is  it  not  your  Bible,  too  ?" 

A  momentary  triumph  showed  itself  in  Blanche's  face. 
"  You  daren't  swear  it !"  she  said.     "  That's  enough  for  me  !" 

She  turned  away  scornfully.  Lady  Lundie  caught  her  by 
the  hand,  and  drew  her  sharply  back.  The  suffering  saint  dis- 
appeared, and  the  woman  who  w^as  no  longer  to  be  trifled  with 
took  her  place. 

"  There  must  be  an  end  to  this,"  she  said.  "  You  don't  be- 
lieve what  I  have  told  you.  Have  you  courage  enough  to  put 
it  to  the  test  ?" 

Blanche  started,  and  released  her  hand.  She  trembled  a  lit- 
tle. There  was  a  horrible  certainty  of  conviction  expressed  in 
Lady  Lundie's  sudden  change  of  manner. 

"  How  ?"  she  asked. 

"  You  shall  see.  Tell  me  the  truth,  on  your  side,  first. 
Where  is  Sir  Patrick  ?  Is  he  really  out,  as  his  servant  told 
me  ?" 

"Yes.  He  is  out  with  the  farm  bailiff.  You  have  taken 
us  all  by  surprise.  You  wrote  that  we  were  to  expect  you  by 
the  next  train." 

"  When  does  the  next  train  arrive  ?  It  is  eleven  o'clock 
now." 

"  Between  one  and  two." 

"  Sir  Patrick  will  not  be  back  till  then  ?" 

"  Not  till  then." 

'•  Where  is  Mr.  Brinkworth  ?" 

"  My  husband  ?" 

"  Your  husband — if  you  like.     Is  he  out,  too  ?" 

"  He  is  in  the  smoking-room." 

"  Do  you  mean  the  long  room,  built  out  from  the  back  of 
the  house  ?" 

"  Yes." 

"  Come  down  stairs  at  once  with  me." 

Blanche  advanced  a  step — and  drew  back.  "  What  do  you 
want  of  me  ?"  she  asked,  inspired  by  a  sudden  distrust. 

Lady  Lundie  turned  round,  and  looked  £it  her  impatiently. 


406  MAN    AND    WIFE. 

"  Can't  you  see  yet,"  she  said,  sharply,  "  that  your  interest 
and  my  interest  in  this  matter  are  one  ?  What  have  I  told 
you  ?" 

"  Don't  repeat  it !" 

"  I  must  repeat  it !  I  have  told  you  that  Arnold  Brink- 
worth  was  privately  at  Craig  Fernie,  with  Miss  Silvester,  in 
the  acknowledged  character  of  her  husband — when  we  sup- 
posed him  to  be  visiting  the  estate  left  him  by  his  aunt.  You 
refuse  to  believe  it — and  I  am  about  to  put  it  to  the  proof  Is 
it  your  interest  or  is  it  not,  to  know  whether  this  man  deserves 
the  blind  belief  that  you  place  in  him  ?" 

Blanche  trembled  from  head  to  foot,  and  made  no  reply. 

"  I  am  going  into  the  garden,  to  speak  to  Mr.  Brinkworth 
through  the  smoking-room  window,"  pursued  her  ladyship. 
"  Have  you  the  courage  to  come  with  me ;  to  wait  behind  out 
of  sight ;  and  to  hear  what  he  says  with  his  own  lips?  I  am 
not  afraid  of  putting  it  to  that  test.     Are  you  ?" 

The  tone  in  which  she  asked  the  question  roused  Blanche's 
spirit. 

"  If  I  believed  him  to  be  guilty,"  she  said,  resolutely,  "  I 
should  not  have  the  courage.  I  believe  him  to  be  innocent. 
Lead  the  way.  Lady  Lundie,  as  soon  as  you  please." 

They  left  the  room — Blanche's  own  room  at  Ham  Farm — 
and  descended  to  the  hall.  Lady  Lundie  stopped,  and  con- 
sulted the  railway  time-table  hanging  near  the  house-door. 

"  There  is  a  train  to  London  at  a  quarter  to  twelve,"  she 
said.     "  How  long  does  it  take  to  walk  to  the  station  ?" 

•'  Why  do  you  ask  ?" 

"You  will  soon  know.     Answer  my  question." 

"  It's  a  walk  of  twenty  minutes  to  the  station." 

Lady  Lundie  referred  to  her  watch.  "  There  will  be  just 
time,"  she  said. 

"  Time  for  what  ?" 

"  Come  into  the  garden." 

With  that  answer,  she  led  the  way  out. 

The  smoking-room  projected  at  right  angles  from  the  wall 
of  the  house,  in  an  oblong  form — with  a  bow-window  at  the 
farther  end,  looking  into  the  garden.  Before  she  turned  the 
corner,  and  showed  herself  within  the  range  of  view  from  the 
window,  Lady  Lundie  looked  back,  and  signed  to  Blanche  to 
wait  behind  the  angle  of  the  wall.    Blanche  waited. 

The  next .  instant  she  heard  the  voices  in  conversation 
through  the  open  window.  Arnold's  voice  was  the  first  that 
spoke. 

"  Lady  Lundie !  Why,  we  didn't  expect  you  till  luncheon- 
time  !" 

Lady  Lundie  was  ready  with  her  answer. 


MAN    AND   WIFE.  407 

"I  was  able  to  leave  town  earlier  than  I  had  anticipated. 
Don't  put  out  your  cigar;  and  don't  move.  I  am  not  coming 
in." 

The  quick  interchange  of  question  and  answer  went  on — ev- 
ery word  being  audible  in  the  perfect  stillness  of  the  place. 
Arnold  was  the  next  to  speak, 

"Have  you  seen  Blanche?'' 

"  Blanche  is  getting  ready  to  go  out  with  me.  We  mean  to 
have  a  walk  together.  I  have  many  things  to  say  to  her. 
Before  we  go,  I  have  something  to  say  to  yoz^" 

"  Is  it  any  thing  very  serious  ?" 

"  It  is  most  serious." 

"About  me?" 

"About  you.  I  know  where  you  went  on  the  evening  of 
my  lawn-party  at  Windygates — you  went  to  Craig  Fernie." 

"  Good  heavens  !  how  did  you  find  out —  ?" 

"  I  know  whom  you  went  to  meet — Miss  Silvester.  I  know 
"what  is  said  of  you  and  of  her — you  are  man  and  wife." 

"Hush  !  don't  speak  so  loud.     Somebody  may  hear  you  !" 

"  What  does  it  matter  if  they  do  ?  I  am  the  only  person 
whom  you  have  kept  out  of  the  secret.  You  all  of  you  know 
it  here." 

"  Nothing  of  the  sort !     Blanche  doesn't  know  it." 

"  What !  Neither  you  nor  Sir  Patrick  has  told  Blanche  of 
the  situation  you  stand  in  at  this  moment  ?" 

"  Not  yet.  Sir  Patrick  leaves  it  to  me.  I  haven't  been  able 
to  bring  myself  to  do  it.  Don't  say  a  word,  I  entreat  you  !  I 
don't  know  how  Blanche  may  interpret  it.  Her  friend  is  ex- 
pected in  London  to-morrow.  I  want  to  wait  till  Sir  Patrick 
can  bring  them  together.  Her  friend  will  break  it  to  her  bet- 
ter than  I  can.  It's  my  notion.  Sir  Patrick  thinks  it  a  good 
one.     Stop  !  you're  not  going  away  already  ?" 

"She  will  be  here  to  look  for  me  if  I  stay  any  longer." 

"  One  word  !     I  want  to  know — " 

"  You  shall  know  later  in  the  day." 

Her  ladyship  appeared  again  round  the  angle  of  the  wall. 
The  next  words  that  passed  were  words  spoken  in  a  whisper. 

"Are  you  satisfied  now,  Blanche  ?" 

"Have  you  mercy  enough  left.  Lady  Lundie,  to  take  me 
away  from  this  house  ?" 

"  My  dear  child !  Why  else  did  I  look  at  the  time-table  in 
the  hall?" 


408  MAN   AND   WIFE. 


CHAPTER  THE  FORTY-THIRD. 

THE    EXPLOSION. 

Arnold's  mind  was  far  from  easy  when  he  was  left  by  h;m- 
self  again  in  the  smoking-room. 

After  wasting  some  time  in  vainly  trying  to  guess  at  the 
source  from  which  Lady  Lundie  had  derived  her  information, 
he  put  on  his  hat,  and  took  the  direction  which  led  to  Blanche's 
favorite  walk  at  Ham  Farm.  Without  absolutely  distrusting 
her  ladyship's  discretion,  the  idea  had  occurred  to  him  that  he 
would  do  well  to  join  his  wife  and  her  stepmother.  By  mak- 
ing a  third  at  the  interview  between  them,  he  might  prevent 
the  conversation  from  assuming  a  perilously  confidential  turn. 

The  search  for  the  ladies  proved  useless.  They  had  not 
taken  the  direction  in  which  he  supposed  them  to  have  gone. 

He  returned  to  the  smoking-room,  and  composed  himself  to 
wait  for  events  as  patiently  as  he  might.  In  this  passive  po- 
sition— with  his  thoughts  still  running  on  Lady  Lundie — his 
memory  reverted  to  a  brief  conversation  between  Sir  Patrick 
and  himself,  occasioned,  on  the  previous  day,  by  her  ladyship's 
announcement  of  her  proposed  visit  to  Ham  Farm.  Sir  Pat- 
rick had  at  once  expressed  his  conviction  that  his  sister-in- 
law's  journey  South  had  some  acknowledged  purpose  at  the 
bottom  of  it. 

"I  am  not  at  all  sure,  Arnold"  (he  had  said),  "that  I  have 
done  wisely  in  leaving  her  letter  unanswered.  And  I  am 
strongly  disposed  to  think  that  the  safest  course  will  be  to 
take  her  into  the  secret  when  she  comes  to-morrow.  We  can't 
help  the  position  in  which  we  are  placed.  It  was  impossible 
(without  admitting  your  wife  to  our  confidence)  to  prevent 
Blanche  from  writing  that  unlucky  letter  to  her — and,  even  if 
we  had  prevented  it,  she  must  have  heard  in  other  ways  of 
your  return  to  England.  I  don't  doubt  my  own  discretion,  so 
far;  and  I  don't  doubt  the  convenience  of  keeping  her  in  the 
dark,  as  a  means  of  keeping  her  from  meddling  in  this  business 
of  yours,  until  I  have  had  time  to  set  it  right.  But  she  may, 
by  some  unlucky  accident,  discover  the  truth  for  herself — and, 
in  that  case,  I  strongly  distrust  the  influence  which  she  might 
attempt  to  exercise  on  Blanche's  mind." 

Those  were  the  words — and  what  had  happened  on  the  day 
after  they  had  been  spoken  ?  Lady  Lundie  had  discovered  the 
truth ;  and  she  was,  at  that  moment,  alone  somewhere  with 


MAN   AND   WIFE.  409 

Blanche.  Arnold  took  up  his  hat  once  more,  and  set  forth  on 
the  search  for  the  ladies  in  another  direction. 

The  second  expedition  was  as  fruitless  as  the  first.  Nothing 
was  to  be  seen,  and  nothing  was  to  be  heard,  of  Lady  Lundie 
and  Blanche. 

Arnold's  watch  told  him  that  it  was  not  far  from  the  time 
when  Sir  Patrick  might  be  expected  to  return.  In  all  proba- 
bility, while  he  had  been  looking  for  them,  the  ladies  had  gone 
back  by  some  other  way  to  the  house.  He  entered  the  rooms 
on  the  ground-floor,  one  after  another.  They  were  all  empty. 
He  went  up  stairs,  and  knocked  at  the  door  of  Blanche's  room. 
There  was  no  answer.  He  opened  the  door  and  looked  in. 
The  room  was  empty,  like  the  rooms  down  stairs.  But,  close 
to  the  entrance,  there  was  a  trifling  circumstance  to  attract 
notice,  in  the  shape  of  a  note  lying  on  the  carpet.  He  picked 
it  up,  and  saw  that  it  was  addressed  to  him  in  the  handwrit- 
ing of  his  wife. 

He  opened  it.  The  note  began,  without  the  usual  form  of 
address,  in  these  words : 

"  I  know  the  abominable  secret  that  you  and  my  uncle  have 
hidden  from  me.  I  know  your  infamy,  and  her  infamy,  and 
the  position  in  which,  thanks  to  you  and  to  her,  I  now  stand. 
Reproaches  would  be  wasted  words,  addressed  to  such  a  man 
as  you  are.  I  write  these  lines  to  tell  you  that  I  have  placed 
myself  under  my  stepmother's  protection  in  London.  It  is 
useless  to  attempt  to  follow  me.  Others  will  find  out  whether 
the  ceremony  of  marriage  which  you  went  through  with  me  is 
binding  on  you  or  not.  For  myself,  I  know  enough  already. 
I  have  gone,  never  to  come  back,  and  never  to  let  you  see  me 
again. — Blanche." 

Hurrying  headlong  down  the  stairs  with  but  one  clear  idea 
in  his  mind — the  idea  of  instantly  following  his  wife — Arnold 
encountered  Sir  Patrick,  standing  by  a  table  in  the  hall,  on 
which  cards  and  notes  left  by  visitors  were  usually  placed, 
with  an  open  letter  in  his  hand.  Seeing  in  an  instant  what 
had  happened,  he  threw  one  of  his  arms  round  Arnold,  and 
stopped  him  at  the  house-door. 

"  You  are  a  man,"  he  said,  firmly.     "  Bear  it  like  a  man." 

Arnold's  head  fell  on  the  shoulder  of  his  kind  old  friend. 
He  burst  into  tears. 

Sir  Patrick  let  the  irrepressible  outbreak  of  grief  have  its 
way.  In  those  first  moments,  silence  Avas  mercy.  He  said 
nothing.  The  letter  which  he  had  been  reading  (from  Lady 
Lundie,  it  is  needless  to  say)  dropped  unheeded  at  his  feet. 

Arnold  lifted  his  head,  and  dashed  away  the  tears. 

"  I  am  ashamed  of  myself,"  he  said.     "  Let  me  go." 

"  Wrong,  ray  poor  fellow  —  doubly  wrong  !"  returned  Sir 


410  MAN   AND   WIPE. 

Patrick.  "There  is  no  shame  in  shedding  such  tears  as  those. 
And  there  is  nothing  to  be  done  by  leaving  me." 

"  I  must  and  will  see  her !" 

"  Read  that,"  said  Sir  Patrick,  pointing  to  the  letter  on  the 
floor.  "See  your  wife?  Your  wife  is  with  the  woman  who 
has  written  those  lines.    Read  them." 

Arnold  read  them. 

"Dear  Sir  Patrick, — If  you  had  honored  me  with  your 
confidence,  I  should  have  been  happy  to  consult  you  before  I 
interfered  to  rescue  Blanche  from  the  position  in  which  Mr. 
Brinkworth  has  placed  her.  As  it  is,  your  late  brother's  child 
is  under  my  protection  at  my  house  in  London.  If  you  at- 
tempt to  exercise  your  authority,  it  must  be  by  main  force — I 
will  submit  to  nothing  less.  If  Mr.  Brinkworth  attempts  to 
exercise  his  authority,  he  shall  establish  his  right  to  do  so  (if 
he  can)  in  a  police-court. 

"  Very  truly  yours,  Julia  Lundie." 

Arnold's  resolution  was  not  to  be  shaken  even  by  this. 
"  What  do  I  care,"  he  burst  out,  hotly,  "  whether  I  am  drag- 
ged through  the  streets  by  the  police  or  not !  I  loill  see  my 
wife.  I  loill  clear  myself  of  the  horrible  suspicion  she  has 
about  me  !     You  have  shown  me  your  letter.     Look  at  mine !" 

Sir  Patrick's  clear  sense  saw  the  wild  words  that  Blanche 
had  written  in  their  true  light. 

"Do  you  hold  your  wife  responsible  for  that  letter?"  he 
aeked.  "  I  see  her  stepmother  in  every  line  of  it.  You  de- 
scend to  something  unworthy  of  you,  if  you  seriously  defend 
yourself  against  this!  You  can't  see  it  ?  You  persist  in  hold- 
ing to  your  own  view  ?  Write,  then.  You  can't  get  to  her — 
your  letter  may.  No  !  When  you  leave  this  house,  you  leave 
it  with  me.  I  have  conceded  something,  on  ray  side,  in  allow- 
ing you  to  write.  I  insist  on  your  conceding  something,  on 
your  side,  in  return.  Come  into  the  library !  I  answer  for 
setting  things  right  between  you  and  Blanche,  if  you  will 
place  your  interests  in  my  hands.     Do  you  trust  me  or  not  ?" 

Arnold  yielded.  They  went  into  the  library  together.  Sir 
Patrick  pointed  to  the  writing-table.  "Relieve  your  mind 
there,"  he  said ;  "and  let  me  find  you  a  reasonable  man  again 
v^rhen  I  come  back." 

When  he  returned  to  the  library  the  letter  was  written; 
and  Arnold's  mind  was  so  far  relieved — for  the  time  at  least. 

"I  shall  take  your  letter  to  Blanche  myself,"  said  Sir  Pat- 
rick, "  by  the  train  that  leaves  for  London  in  half  an  hour's 
time." 

"  You  will  let  me  go  with  you  ?" 


MAN    AND    WIFB.  411 

"  Not  to-day.  I  shall  be  back  this  evening  to  dinner.  You 
shall  hear  all  that  has  happened  ;  and  you  shall  accompany 
me  to  London  to-moirow  —  if  I  find  it  necessary  to  make  any 
lengthened  stay  there.  Between  this  and  then,  after  the  shock 
that  you  have  suffered,  you  will  do  well  to  be  quiet  here.  Be 
satisfied  with  my  assurance  that  Blanche  shall  have  your  let- 
ter. I  will  force  my  authority  on  her  stepmother  to  that  ex- 
tent (if  her  stepmother  resists)  without  scruple.  The  respect 
in  which  I  hold  the  sex  only  lasts  as  long  as  the  sex  deserves 
it — and  does  not  extend  to  Lady  Lundie.  There  is  no  advan- 
tage that  a  man  can  take  of  a  woman  which  I  am  not  fully 
prepared  to  take  of  my  sister-in-law." 

With  that  characteristic  farewell,  he  shook  hands  with  Ar- 
nold, and  departed  for  the  station. 

At  seven  o'clock  the  dinner  was  on  the  table.  At  seven 
o'clock  Sir  Patrick  came  down  stairs  to  eat  it,  as  perfectly 
dressed  as  usual,  and  as  composed  as  if  nothing  had  happened. 

"She  has  got  your  letter,"  he  whispered,  as  he  took  Ar- 
nold's arm,  and  led  him  into  the  dining-room. 

"  Did  she  say  any  thing  ?" 

"  Not  a  word." 

"  How  did  she  look  ?" 

"  As  she  ought  to  look — sorry  for  what  she  has  done." 

The  dinner  began.  As  a  matter  of  necessity,  the  subject  of 
Sir  Patrick's  expedition  was  dropped  while  the  servants  were 
in  the  room — to  be  regularly  taken  up  again  by  Arnold  in  the 
intervals  between  the  courses.  He  began  when  the  soup  was 
taken  away. 

"  I  confess  I  had  hoped  to  see  Blanche  come  back  with  you  !" 
he  said,  sadly  enough. 

"  In  other  words,"  returned  Sir  Patrick,  "  you  forgot  the  na- 
tive obstinacy  of  the  sex.  Blanche  is  beginning  to  feel  that 
she  has  been  wrong.  What  is  the  necessary  consequence  ? 
She  naturally  persists  in  being  wrong.  Let  her  alone,  and 
leave  your  letter  to  have  its  effect.  The  serious  difficulties  in 
our  way  don't  rest  with  Blanche.  Content  yourself  with 
knowing  that." 

The  fish  came  in,  and  Arnold  was  silenced — until  his  next 
opportunity  came  with  the  next  interval  in  the  course  of  the 
dinner. 

"  What  are  the  difficulties  ?"  he  asked. 

"  The  difficulties  are  my  difficulties  and  yours,"  answered 
Sir  Patrick.  "  My  difficulty  is,  that  I  can't  assert  my  authori- 
ty as  guardian  if  I  assume  my  niece  (as  I  do)  to  be  a  married 
woman.  Your  difficulty  is,  that  you  can't  assert  your  authori- 
ty as  her  husband,  until  it  is  distinctly  proved  that  you  and 


412  MAN    AND    WIFE. 

Miss  Silvester  are  not  man  and  wife.  Lady  Lundie  was  per- 
fectly aware  that  she  would  place  us  in  that  position  when  she 
removed  Blanche  from  this  house.  She  has  cross-examined 
Mrs.  Inchbare  ;  she  has  written  to  your  steward  for  the  date 
of  your  arrival  at  your  estate  ;  she  has  done  every  thing,  cal- 
culated every  thing,  and  foreseen  every  thing — except  my  ex- 
cellent temper.  The  one  mistake  she  has  made,  is  in  thinking 
she  could  get  the  better  of  that.  No,  my  dear  boy  !  My 
trump  card  is  my  temper.  I  keep  it  in  my  hand,  Arnold — I 
keep  it  in  my  hand !" 

The  next  course  came  in — and  there  was  an  end  of  the  sub- 
ject again.  Sir  Patrick  enjoyed  his  mutton,  and  entered  on  a 
long  and  interesting  narrative  of  the  history  of  some  rare  white 
Burgundy  on  the  table  imported  by  himself  Arnold  resolute- 
ly resumed  the  discussion  with  the  departure  of  the  mutton. 

"  It  seems  to  be  a  dead-lock,"  he  said. 

"  No  slang !"  retorted  Sir  Patrick. 

"  For  Heaven's  sake,  sir,  consider  my  anxiety,  and  tell  me 
what  you  propose  to  do  !" 

"  I  propose  to  take  you  to  London  with  me  to-morrow,  on 
this  condition — that  you  promise  me,  on  your  word  of  honor, 
not  to  attempt  to  see  your  wife  before  Saturday  next." 

"  I  shall  see  her  then  ?" 

"  If  you  give  me  your  promise." 

"I  do!     I  do!" 

The  next  course  came  in.  Sir  Patrick  entered  on  the  ques- 
tion of  the  merits  of  the  partridge,  viewed  as  an  eatable  bird. 
"  By  himself,  Arnold — plainly  roasted,  and  tested  on  his  own 
merits — an  overrated  bird.  Being  too  fond  of  shooting  him  in 
this  country,  we  become  too  fond  of  eating  him  next.  Prop- 
erly understood,  he  is  a  vehicle  for  sauce  and  truffles — nothing 
more.  Or  no — that  is  hardly  doing  him  justice.  I  am  bound 
to  add  that  he  is  honorably  associated  with  the  famous  French 
receipt  for  cooking  an  olive.     Do  you  know  it '?" 

There  was  an  end  of  the  bird  ;  there  was  an  end  of  the  jelly. 
Arnold  got  his  next  chance — and  took  it. 

"  What  is  to  be  done  in  London  to-morrow  ?"  he  asked. 

"  To-morrow,"  answered  Sir  Patrick,  "  is  a  memorable  da  / 
in  our  calendar.  To-morrow  is  Tuesday — the  day  on  which  I 
am  to  see  Miss  Silvester." 

Arnold  set  down  the  glass  of  wine  which  he  was  just  raising 
to  his  lips. 

"After  what  has  happened,"  he  said,  "I  can  hardly  bear  to 
hear  her  name  mentioned.  Miss  Silvester  has  parted  me  from 
my  wife." 

"  Miss  Silvester  may  atone  for  that,  Arnold,  by  uniting  you 
again." 


I 


MAN    AND    WIFK  413 

"  She  has  been  the  ruin  of  nie  so  far." 

"  She  may  be  the  salvation  of  you  yet." 

The  cheese  came  in  ;  and  Sir  Patrick  returned  to  the  Art  ot 
Cookery, 

"  Do  you  know  the  receipt  for  cooking  an  olive,  Arnold  ?" 

»  No." 

"What  does  the  new  generation  know?  It  knows  how  to 
row,  how  to  shoot,  liow  to  play  at  cricket,  and  how  to  bet. 
When  it  has  lost  its  muscle  and  lost  its  money — that  is  to  say, 
when  it  has  grown  old  —  what  a  generation  it  will  be  !  It 
doesn't  matter :  I  sha'n't  live  to  see  it.  Are  you  listening, 
Arnold  ?" 

"  Yes,  sir." 

"  How  to  cook  an  olive  ;  Put  an  olive  into  a  lark  ;  put  a  lark 
into  a  quail ;  put  a  quail  into  a  plover ;  put  a  plover  into  a 
partridge  ;  put  a  partridge  into  a  pheasant ;  put  a  pheasant 
into  a  turkey.  Good,  First,  partially  roast ;  then  carefully 
stew — until  all  is  thoroughly  done  down  to  the  olive.  Good 
again.  Next,  open  the  window.  Throw  out  the  turkey,  the 
pheasant,  the  partridge,  the  plover,  the  quail,  and  the  lark. 
Then,  eat  the  olive.  The  dish  is  expensive,  but  (we  have  it  on 
the  highest  authority)  well  worth  the  sacrifice.  The  quintes- 
sence of  the  flavor  of  six  birds,  concentrated  in  one  olive. 
Grand  idea !  Tiy  another  glass  of  the  white  Burgundy,  Ar- 
nold." 

At  last  the  servants  left  them,  with  the  wine  and  dessert  on 
the  table, 

"I  have  borne  it  as  long  as  I  can,  sir,"  said  Arnold,  "Add 
to  all  your  kindness  to  me  by  telling  me  at  once  what  happen- 
ed at  Lady  Lundie's," 

It  was  a  chilly  evening.  A  bright  wood  fire  was  burning 
in  the  room.     Sir  Patrick  drew  his  chair  to  the  fire. 

"  This  is  exactly  what  happened,"  he  said.  "  I  found  com- 
pany at  Lady  Lundie's,  to  begin  with.  Two  perfect  strangers 
to  me.  Captain  Newenden,  and  his  niece,  Mrs.  Glenarm. 
Lady  Lundie  offered  to  see  me  in  another  room ;  the  two 
strangers  offered  to  withdraw.  I  declined  both  proposals. 
First  check  to  her  ladyship  !  She  has  reckoned  throughout, 
Arnold,  on  our  being  afraid  to  face  public  opinion.  I  showed 
her  at  starting  that  we  were  as  ready  to  face  it  as  she  was. 
*I  always  accept  what  the  French  call  accomplished  facts,'  I 
said.  '  You  have  brought  matters  to  a  crisis,  Lady  Lundie. 
So  let  it  be.  I  have  a  word  to  say  to  my  niece  (in  your  pres- 
ence, if  you  like) ;  and  I  have  another  word  to  say  to  you  af- 
terward— without  presuming  to  disturb  your  guests.'  The 
guests  sat  down  again  (both  naturally  devoured  by  curiosity). 
Could  her  ladyship  decently  refuse  me  an  interview  with  my 


414  MAN    AND    WIFE. 

own  niece,  while  two  witnesses  were  looking  on  ?  Impossible. 
I  saw  Blanche  (Lady  Lundie  being  present,  it  is  needless  to 
say)  in  the  back  drawing-room.  I  gave  her  your  letter ;  I 
said  a  good  word  for  you ;  I  saw  that  she  was  sorry,  though 
she  wouldn't  own  it — and  that  was  enough.  We  went  back 
into  the  front  drawing-room.  T  had  not  spoken  five  words  on 
our  side  of  the  question  before  it  appeared,  to  my  astonishment 
and  delight,  that  Captain  Newenden  was  in  the  house  on  the 
very  question  that  had  brought  me  into  the  house — the  ques- 
tion of  you  and  Miss  Silvester.  My  business,  in  the  interests 
of  tny  niece,  was  to  deny  your  marriage  to  the  lady.  His  busi- 
ness, in  the  interests  of  his  niece,  was  to  assert  your  marriage 
to  the  lady.  To  the  unutterable  disgust  of  the  two  women, 
we  joined  issue,  in  the  most  friendly  manner,  on  the  spot. 
'Charmed  to  have  the  pleasure  of  meeting  you,  Captain  New- 
enden.' — '  Delighted  to  have  the  honor  of  making  your  ac- 
quaintance. Sir  Patrick.' — '  I  think  we  can  settle  this  in  two 
minutes?' — 'My  own  idea  perfectly  expressed.' — 'State  your 
position,  Captain.' — '  With  the  greatest  pleasure.  Here  is  my 
niece,  Mrs.  Glenarra,  engaged  to  marry  Mr.  Geoffrey  Delamayn. 
All  very  well,  but  there  happens  to  be  an  obstacle — in  the  shape 
of  a  lady.  Do  I  put  it  plainly?' — 'You  put  it  admirably,  Cap- 
tain :  but  for  the  loss  to  the  British  navy,  you  ought  to  have 
been  a  lawyer.  Pray,  go  on.' — '  You  are  too  good.  Sir  Patrick. 
I  resume.  Mr.  Delamayn  asserts  that  this  person  in  the  back- 
ground has  no  claim  on  him,  and  backs  his  assertion  by  declar- 
ing that  she  is  married  already  to  Mr.  Arnold  Brinkworth. 
Lady  Lundie  and  my  niece  assure  me,  on  evidence  which  sat- 
isfies them^  that  the  assertion  is  true.  The  evidence  does  not 
satisfy  me.  I  hope.  Sir  Patrick,  I  don't  strike  you  as  being  an 
excessively  obstinate  man  ?' — '  My  dear  sir,  you  impress  me  with 
the  highest  opinion  of  your  capacity  for  sifting  human  testimo- 
ny !  May  I  ask,  next,  what  course  you  mean  to  take  ?' — '  The 
very  thing  I  was  going  to  mention.  Sir  Patrick !  This  is  my 
course :  I  refuse  to  sanction  my  niece's  engagement  to  Mr.  De- 
lamayn, until  Mr.  Delamayn  has  actually  proved  his  statement 
by  appeal  to  witnesses  of  the  lady's  marriage.  He  refers  me  to 
two  witnesses;  but  declines  acting  at  once  in  the  matter  for 
himself,  on  the  ground  that  he  is  in  training  for  a  foot-race.  I 
admit  that  that  is  an  obstacle,  and  consent  to  arrange  for  bring- 
ing the  two  witnesses  to  London  myself  By  this  post  I  have 
written  to  my  lawyers  in  Perth  to  look  the  witnesses  up;  to 
offer  them  the  necessary  terms  (at  Mr.  Delamayn's  expense) 
for  the  use  of  their  time ;  and  to  produce  them  by  the  end  of 
the  week.  The  foot-race  is  on  Thursday  next.  Mr.  Delamayn 
will  be  able  to  attend  after  that,  and  establish  his  own  asser- 
tion by  his  own  witnesses.     What  do  you  say,  Sir  Patrick,  to 


MAN   AND   WIFE.  416 

Saturday  next  (with  Lady  Lnudie's  permission)  in  this  room?' 
There  is  the  substance  of  the  captain's  statement.  He  is  as 
old  as  I  am,  and  is  dressed  to  look  like  thirty;  but  a  very 
pleasant  fellow  for  all  that.  I  struck  my  sister-in-law  dumb 
by  accepting  the  proposal  without  a  moment's  hesitation. 
Mrs.  Glenarm  and  Lady  Lundie  looked  at  each  other  in  mute 
amazement.  Here  was  a  difference  about  which  two  women 
would  have  mortally  quarreled;  and  here  were  two  men  set- 
tling it  in  the  friendliest  possible  manner.  I  wish  you  had  seen 
Lady  Lundie's  face  when  I  declared  myself  deeply  indebted  to 
Captain  Newenden  for  rendering  any  prolonged  interview  with 
her  ladyship  quite  unnecessary.  '  Thanks  to  the  captain,'  I 
said  to  her,  in  the  most  cordial  manner, '  we  have  absolutely 
nothing  to  discuss.  I  shall  catch  the  next  train,  and  set  Ar- 
nold Brinkworth's  mind  quite  at  ease,'  To  come  back  to  seri- 
ous things,  I  have  engaged  to  produce  you,  in  the  presence  of 
every  body — your  wife  included — on  Saturday  next.  I  put  a 
bold  face  on  it  before  the  others.  But  I  am  bound  to  tell  you 
that  it  is  by  no  means  easy  to  say — situated  as  we  are  now — 
what  the  result  of  Saturday's  inquiry  will  be.  Every  thing 
depends  on  the  issue  of  my  interview  with  Miss  Silvester  to- 
mon-ow.  It  is  no  exaggeration  to  say,  Arnold,  that  your  fate 
is  in  her  hands." 

"  I  wish  to  Heaven  I  had  never  set  eyes  on  her !"  said  Arnold. 

"  Lay  the  saddle  on  the  right  horse,"  returned  Sir  Patrick. 
*'  Wish  you  had  never  set  eyes  on  Geoffrey  Delamayn." 

Arnold  hung  his  head.  Sir  Patrick's  sharp  tongue  had  got 
the  better  of  him  once  more. 


TWELFTH  SCENE.— DRURY  LANE. 
CHAPTER  THE  FORTY-FOURTH. 

THE  LETTER    AND   THE    LAW. 

The  many-toned  murmur  of  the  current  of  London  life — 
flowing  through  the  murky  channel  of  Drury  Lane — found  its 
muffled  w^ay  from  the  front  room  to  the  back.  Piles  of  old 
music  lumbered  the  dusty  floor.  Stage  masks  and  weapons, 
ftnd  portraits  of  singers  and  dancers,  hung  round  the  walls. 
An  empty  violin-case  in  one  corner  faced  a  broken  bust  of 
Rossini  in  another.  A  frameless  print,  representing  the  Trial 
of  Queen  Caroline,  was  pasted  over  the  fire-place.  The  chairs 
were  genuine  specimens  of  ancient  carving  in  oak.  The  table 
was  an  equally  excellent  example  of  dirty  modern  deal.     A 


416  MAN    AND    WIFE. 

small  morsel  of  drugget  was  on  the  floor  ;  and  a  large  deposit 
of  soot  was  on  the  ceiling.  The  scene  thus  presented,  revealed 
itself  in  the  back  drawing-room  of  a  house  in  Drury  Lane,  de- 
voted to  the  transaction  of  musical  and  theatrical  business  of 
the  humbler  sort.  It  was  late  in  the  afternoon,  on  Michaelmas- 
day.  Two  persons  were  seated  together  in  the  room :  they 
were  Anne  Silvester  and  Sir  Patrick  Lundie. 

The  opening  conversation  between  them  —  comprising,  on 
one  side,  the  narrative  of  what  had  happened  at  Perth  and 
at  Swanhaven  ;  and,  on  the  other,  a  statement  of  the  circum- 
stances attending  the  separation  of  Arnold  and  Blanche — had 
come  to  an  end.  It  rested  with  Sir  Patrick  to  lead  the  Avay 
to  the  next  topic.     He  looked  at  his  companion,  and  hesitated. 

"  Do  you  feel  strong  enough  to  go  on  ?"  he  asked.  "  If  you 
would  prefer  to  rest  a  little,  pray  say  so." 

"  Thank  you,  Sir  Patrick.  I  am  more  than  ready,  I  am 
eager,  to  go  on.  No  words  can  say  how  anxious  I  feel  to  be 
of  some  use  to  you,  if  I  can.  It  rests  entirely  with  your  expe- 
rience to  show  me  how." 

"I  can  only  do  that.  Miss  Silvester,  by  asking  you  withoul 
ceremony  for  all  the  information  that  I  want.  Had  you  any 
object  in  traveling  to  London,  which  you  have  not  mentioned 
to  me  yet  ?  I  mean,  of  course,  any  object  with  which  I  have 
a  claim  (as  Arnold  Brinkworth's  representative)  to  be  ac- 
quainted ?" 

"  I  had  an  object,  Sir  Patrick.  And  I  have  failed  to  accom- 
plish it." 

"  May  I  ask  what  it  was  ?" 

"It  was  to  see  Geoffrey  Delamayn." 

Sir  Patrick  started.  "  You  have  attempted  to  see  him ! 
When  ?" 

"This  morning." 

"  Why,  you  only  arrived  in  London  last  night !" 

"  I  only  arrived,"  said  Anne,  "  after  waiting  many  days  on 
the  journey.  I  was  obliged  to  rest  at  Edinburgh,  and  again 
at  York — and  I  was  afraid  I  had  given  Mrs.  Glenarm  time 
enough  to  get  to  Geoffrey  Delamayn  before  me." 

"Afraid?"  repeated  Sir  Patrick.  "I  understood  that  you 
had  no  serious  intention  of  disputing  the  scoundrel  with  Mrs. 
Glenarm.  What  motive  could  possibly  have  taken  you  his 
way  ?" 

"  The  same  motive  which  took  me  to  Swanhaven." 

"  What !  the  idea  that  it  rested  with  Delamayn  to  set  things 
I'ight  ?  and  that  you  might  bribe  him  to  do  it,  by  consenting 
to  release  him,  so  far  as  your  claims  were  concerned  ?" 

"  Bear  with  my  folly,  Sir  Patrick,  as  patiently  as  yon  can  ! 
I  am  always  alone  now ;  and  I  get  into  a  habit  of  brooding 


MAN    AND    WIFE.  417 

over  things.  I  have  been  brooding  over  the  position  in  which 
my  misfortunes  have  placed  Mr.  Brinkworth.  I  have  been 
obstinate — unreasonably  obstinate — in  believing  that  I  could 
pi-evail  with  Geoffrey  Delamayn,  after  I  had  failed  with  Mrs. 
Glenarm.  I  am  obstinate  about  it  still.  If  he  would  only  have 
heard  me,  my  madness  in  going  to  Fulham  might  have  had  its 
excuse."     She  sighed  bitterly,  and  said  no  more. 

Sir  Patrick  took  her  hand. 

"  It  has  its  excuse,"  he  said,  kindly.  "  Your  motive  is  be- 
yond reproach.  Let  me  add — to  quiet  your  mind — that,  even 
if  Delamayn  had  been  willing  to  hear  you,  and  had  accepted 
the  condition,  the  result  would  still  have  been  the  same.  You 
are  quite  wrong  in  supposing  that  he  has  only  to  speak,  and  to 
set  this  matter  right.  It  has  passed  entirely  beyond  his  con- 
trol. The  mischief  was  done  when  Arnold  Brinkworth  spent 
those  unlucky  hours  with  you  at  Craig  Fei-nie." 

"  Oh,  Sir  Patrick,  if  I  had  only  known  that,  before  I  went  to 
Fulhara  this  morning  !" 

She  shuddered  as  she  said  the  words.  Something  was  plain- 
ly associated  with  her  vi^it  to  Geoffrey,  the  bare  remembrance 
of  which  shook  her  nerves.  What  was  it?  Sir  Patrick  re- 
solved to  obtain  an  answer  to  that  question  before  he  ventured 
on  proceeding  further  with  the  main  object  of  the  interview. 

"  You  have  told  me  your  reason  for  going  to  Fulham,"  he 
said.     "  But  I  have  not  heard  what  happened  there  yet," 

Anne  hesitated.  "Is  it  necessary  for  me  to  trouble  you 
about  that  ?"  she  asked,  with  evident  reluctance  to  enter  on 
the  subject, 

"  It  is  absolutely  necessary,"  answered  Sir  Patrick,  "  because 
Delamayn  is  concerned  in  it," 

Anne  summoned  her  resolution,  and  entered  on  her  narrative 
in  these  words : 

"  The  person  who  carries  on  the  business  here  discovered 
the  address  for  me,"  she  began.  "  I  had  some  difficulty,  how- 
ever, in  finding  the  house.  It  is  little  more  than  a  cottage ; 
and  it  is  quite  lost  in  a  great  garden,  surrounded  by  high  walls. 
I  igaw  a  carriage  waiting.  The  coachman  was  walking  his 
horses  up  and  down — and  he  showed  me  the  door.  It  was  a 
high  wooden  door  in  the  wall,  with  a  grating  in  it.  I  rang  the 
bell.  A  servant-girl  opened  the  grating,  and  looked  at  me. 
She  refused  to  let  me  in.  Her  mistress  had  ordei'ed  her  to  close 
the  door  on  all  strangers — especially  strangers  who  were  wom- 
en. I  contri^ved  to  pass  some  money  to  her  through  the  grat- 
ing, and  asked  to  speak  to  her  mistress.  After  waiting  some 
time  I  saw  another  face  behind  the  bars — and  it  struck  me  that 
I  recognized  it,  I  suppose  I  was  nervous.  It  startled  me.  I 
27 


418  MAN   AND   WIFE. 

said,  '  I  think  we  know  each  other.'  There  was  no  answer. 
The  door  was  suddenly  opened — and  who  do  you  think  stood 
before  me  ?" 

"  Was  it  somebody  I  know  ?" 

"Yes." 

"  Man  ?  or  woman  ?" 

"  It  was  Hester  Dethridge." 

"  Hester  Dethridge  !" 

"  Yes.  Dressed  just  as  usual,  and  looking  just  as  usual — 
with  her  slate  hanging  at  her  side." 

"Astonishing  !  Where  did  I  last  see  her?  At  the  Windy- 
gates  station,  to  be  sure — going  to  London,  after  she  had  left 
my  sister-in-law's  service.  Has  she  accepted  another  place — 
without  letting  me  know  first,  as  I  told  her?" 

"  She  is  living  at  Fulham." 

"  In  service  ?" 

"  No.     As  mistress  of  her  own  house." 

"  What !  Hester  Dethridge  in  possession  oi  a  house  of  her 
own  ?  Well !  well !  why  shouldn't  she  have  a  rise  in  the 
world  like  other  people  ?     Did  she  let  you  in  ?" 

"  She  stood  for  some  time  looking  at  me,  in  that  dull  strange 
way  that  she  has.  The  servants  at  Windygates  always  said 
she  was  not  in  her  right  mind — and  you  will  say,  Sir  Patrick, 
when  you  hear  what  happened,  that  the  servants  were  not  mis- 
taken. She  must  be  mad.  I  said,  'Don't  you  remember  me?' 
She  lifted  her  slate,  and  wrote,  '  I  remember  you,  in  a  dead 
swoon  at  Windygates  House.'  I  was  quite  unaware  that  she 
had  been  present  when  I  fainted  in  the  library.  The  discovery 
startled  me — or  that  dreadful,  dead-cold  look  that  she  has  in 
her  eyes  startled  me — I  don't  know  which.  I  couldn't  speak 
to  her  just  at  first.  She  wrote  on  her  slate  again — the  strangest 
question — in  these  words  :  '  I  said,  at  the  time,  brought  to  it 
by  a  man.  Did  I  say  true?'  If  the  question  had  been  put  in 
the  usual  way,  by  any  body  else,  I  should  have  considered  it 
too  insolent  to  be  noticed.  Can  you  understand  my  answer- 
ing it.  Sir  Patrick  ?  I  can't  understand  it  myself,  now — and 
yet  I  did  answer.  She  forced  me  to  it  with  her  stony  eyes.  I 
said  'Yes.'" 

"  Did  all  this  take  place  at  the  door  ?" 

"At  the  door." 

"  When  did  she  let  you  in  ?" 

"  The  next  thing  she  did  was  to  let  me  in.  She  took  me  by 
the  arm,  in  a  rough  way,  and  drew  me  inside  the  door,  and 
shut  it.  My  nerves  are  broken  ;  my  courage  is  gone.  I  crept 
with  cold  when  she  touched  me.  She  dropped  my  arm.  I 
stood  like  a  child,  waiting  for  what  it  pleased  her  to  say  or  do 
next.     She  rested  her  two  hands  on  her  sides,  and  took  a  long 


MAN   AND   WIFE.  419 

look  at  me.  She  made  a  horrid  dumb  sound — not  as  if  she  was 
angry  ;  more,  if  such  a  thing  could  be,  as  if  she  was  satisfied — 
pleased  even,  I  should  have  said,  if  it  had  been  any  body  but 
Hester  Dethridge.     Do  you  understand  it  ?" 

"  Not  yet.  Let  me  get  nearer  to  understanding  it  by  asking 
something  before  you  go  on.  Did  she  show  any  attachment 
to  you,  when  you  were  both  at  Windygates  ?" 

"  Not  the  least.  She  appeared  to  be  incapable  of  attach- 
ment to  me,  or  to  any  body." 

"  Did  she  write  any  more  questions  on  her  slate  ?" 

"  Yes.  She  wrote  another  question  under  what  she  had 
written  just  before.  Her  mind  was  still  running  on  ray  faint- 
ing-fit, and  on  the  '  man '  who  had  '  brought  me  to  it.'  She 
held  up  the  slate  ;  and  the  words  were  these  :  '  Tell  me  how 
he  served  you  ;  did  he  knock  you  down  ?'  Most  people  would 
have  laughed  at  the  question.  I  was  startled  by  it.  I  told 
her,  No.  She  shook  her  head  as  if  she  didn't  believe  me.  She 
wrote  on  her  slate, '  We  are  loth  to  own  it  when  they  up  with 
their  fists  and  beat  us  —  ain't  we?"  I  said,  'You  are  quite 
wrong.'  She  went  on  obstinately  with  her  writing.  'Who  is 
the  man  ?'  was  her  next  question.  I  had  control  enough  over 
myself  to  decline  telling  her  that.  She  opened  the  door,  and 
pointed  to  me  to  go  out.  I  made  a  sign  entreating  her  to  wait 
a  little.  She  went  back,  in  her  impenetrable  way,  to  the  writ- 
ing on  the  slate — still  about  the  '  man.'  This  time  the  ques- 
tion was  plainer  still.  She  had  evidently  placed  her  own  in- 
terpretation of  my  appearance  at  the  house.  She  wrote, '  Is  it 
the  man  who  lodges  here?'  I  saw  that  she  would  close  the 
door  on  me  if  I  didn't  answer.  My  only  chance  with  her  was 
to  own  that  she  had  guessed  right.  I  said  'Yes.  I  want  to 
see  him.'  She  took  me  by  the  arm  as  roughly  as  before  and 
led  me  into  the  house." 

"  I  begin  to  understand  her,"  said  Sir  Patrick.  "  I  remem- 
ber hearing,  in  my  brother's  time,  that  she  had  been  brutally 
ill-used  by  her  husband.  The  association  of  ideas,  even  in  her 
confused  brain,  becomes  plain,  if  you  bear  that  in  mind.  What 
is  her  last  remembrance  of  you  ?  It  is  the  remembrance  of  a 
fainting  woman  at  Windygates." 

"  Yes." 

"  She  makes  you  acknowledge  that  she  has  guessed  right, 
in  guessing  that  a  man  was,  in  some  way,  answerable  for  the 
condition  in  which  she  found  you.  A  swoon  produced  by  a 
shock  inflicted  on  the  mind,  is  a  swoon  that  she  doesn't  under- 
stand. She  looks  back  into  her  own  experience,  and  associates 
it  with  the  exercise  of  actual  physical  brutality  on  the  part  of 
the  man.  And  she  sees,  in  you,  a  reflection  of  her  own  sufier- 
ings  and  her  own  case.     It's  curious — to  a  student  of  human 


420  MAN   AND   WIFE. 

nature.  And  it  explains,  what  is  otherwise  unintelligible,  her 
overlooking  her  own  instructions  to  the  servant,  and  letting 
you  into  the  house.     What  happened  next  ?" 

"  She  took  me  into  a  room,  which  I  suppose  was  her  own 
room.  She  made  signs,  offering  me  tea.  It  was  done  in  the 
strangest  way — without  the  least  appearance  of  kindness.  Af- 
ter what  you  have  just  said  to  me,  I  think  I  can  in  some  degree 
interpret  what  was  going  on  in  her  mind.  I  believe  she  felt 
a  hard-hearted  interest  in  seeing  a  woman  whom  she  supposed 
to  be  as  unfortunate  as  she  had  once  been  herself.  I  declined 
taking  any  tea,  and  tried  to  return  to  the  subject  of  what  I 
wanted  in  the  house.  She  paid  no  heed  to  me.  She  pointed 
round  the  room ;  and  then  took  me  to  a  window,  and  pointed 
round  the  garden — and  then  made  a  sign  indicating  herself. 
'My  house;  and  my  garden'  —  that  was  what  she  meant. 
There  were  four  men  in  the  garden — and  Geoffrey  Delamayn 
was  one  of  them.  I  made  another  attempt  to  tell  her  that  I 
wanted  to  speak  to  him.  But,  no  !  She  had  her  own  idea  in 
her  mind.  After  beckoning  to  me  to  leave  the  window,  she 
led  the  way  to  the  fire-place,  and  showed  me  a  sheet  of  paper 
with  writing  on  it,  framed  and  placed  under  a  glass,  and  hung 
on  the  wall.  She  seemed,  I  thought,  to  feel  some  kind  of  pride 
in  her  framed  manuscript.  At  any  rate,  she  insisted  on  my 
reading  it.     It  was  an  extract  from  a  will." 

"  The  will  under  which  she  had  inherited  the  house  ?" 

"  Yes.  Her  brother's  will.  It  said,  that  he  regretted,  on 
his  death-bed,  his  estrangement  from  his  only  sister,  dating 
from  the  time  when  she  had  married  in  defiance  of  his  wishes 
and  against  his  advice.  As  a  proof  of  his  sincere  desire  to  be 
reconciled  with  her  before  he  died,  and  as  some  compensation 
for  the  sufferings  that  she  had  endured  at  the  hands  of  her  de- 
ceased husband,  he  left  her  an  income  of  two  hundred  pounds  a 
year,  together  with  the  use  of  his  house  and  garden,  for  her 
lifetime.  That,  as  well  as  I  remember,  was  the  substance  of 
what  it  said." 

"  Creditable  to  her  brother  and  creditable  to  herself,"  said 
Sir  Patrick.  "  Taking  her  odd  character  into  consideration,  I 
understand  her  liking  it  to  be  seen.  What  puzzles  me,  is  her 
letting  lodgings  with  an  income  of  her  own  to  live  on." 

"  That  was  the  very  question  which  I  put  to  her  myself  I 
was  obliged  to  be  cautious,  and  to  begin  by  asking  about  the 
lodgers  first — the  men  being  still  visible  out  in  the  garden,  to 
excuse  the  inquiry.  The  rooms  to  let  in  the  house  had  (as  I 
understood  her)  been  taken  by  a  person  acting  for  Geoffrey 
Delamayn — his  trainer,  I  presume.  He  had  surprised  Hester 
Dethridge  by  barely  noticing  the  house,  and  showing  the  most 
extraordinary  interest  in  the  garden." 


MAN    AND    WIFE.  421 

"  That  is  quite  intelligible,  Miss  Silvester.  The  garden  you 
have  described  would  be  just  the  place  he  wanted  for  the  ex- 
ercises of  his  employer — plenty  of  space,  and  well  secured  from 
observation  by  the  high  walls  all  round.     What  next  ?" 

"  Next,  I  got  to  the  question  of  why  she  should  let  her  house 
in  lodgings  at  all.  When  I  asked  her  that,  her  face  turned  hard- 
er than  ever.  She  answered  me  on  her  slate  in  these  dismal 
words  :  '  I  have  not  got  a  friend  in  the  world.  I  dare  not  live 
alone.'  There  was  her  reason  !  Dreary  and  dreadful.  Sir  Pat- 
rick, was  it  not?" 

"  Dreary  indeed  !  How  did  it  end  ?  Did  you  get  into  the 
garden  ?" 

"  Yes — at  the  second  attempt.  She  seemed  suddenly  to 
change  her  mind  ;  she  opened  the  door  for  me  herself.  Pass- 
ing the  window  of  the  room  in  which  I  had  left  her,  I  looked 
back.  She  had  taken  her  place  at  a  table  before  the  window, 
apparently  watching  for  what  might  happen.  There  was  some- 
thing about  her,  as  her  eyes  met  mine  (I  can't  say  what),  which 
made  me  feel  uneasy  at  the  time.  Adopting  your  view,  I  am 
almost  inclined  to  think  now,  horrid  as  the  idea  is,  that  she  had 
the  expectation  of  seeing  me  treated  as  she  had  been  treated  in 
former  days.  It  was  actually  a  relief  to  me — though  I  knew 
I  was  going  to  run  a  serious  risk — to  lose  sight  of  her.  As  I 
got  nearer  to  the  men  in  the  garden,  I  heard  two  of  them  talk- 
ing very  earnestly  to  Geoftrey  Delamayn.  The  fourth  person, 
an  elderly  gentleman,  stood  apart  from  the  rest  at  some  little 
distance.  I  kept  as  far  as  I  could  out  of  sight,  waiting  till  the 
talk  was  over.  It  was  impossible  for  me  to  help  hearing  it. 
The  two  men  were  trying  to  persuade  Geoffrey  Delamayn  to 
speak  to  the  elderly  gentleman.  They  pointed  to  him  as  a  fa- 
mous medical  man.  They  reiterated  over  and  over  again,  that 
his  opinion  was  well  worth  having — " 

Sir  Patrick  interrupted  her.     "  Did  they  mention  his  name  ?" 

IIP   flSKPO 

"  Yes.     They  called  him  Mr.  Speedwell." 

"The  man  himself!  This  is  even  more  interesting.  Miss  Sil- 
vester, than  you  suppose.  I  myself  heard  Mr.  Speedwell  warn 
Delamayn  that  he  was  in  broken  health,  when  we  were  visiting 
together  at  Windygates  House  last  month.  Did  he  do  as  the 
other  men  wished  him  ?     Did  he  speak  to  the  surgeon  ?" 

"  No.  He  sulkily  refused — he  remembered  what  you  remem- 
ber. He  said, '  See  the  man  who  told  me  I  was  broken  down  ? 
— not  I !'  After  confirming  it  with  an  oath,  he  turned  away 
from  the  others.  Unfortunately,  he  took  the  direction  in  which 
I  was  standing,  and  discovered  me.  The  bare  sight  of  me  seem- 
ed to  throw  him  instantly  into  a  state  of  frenzy.  He — it  is  im- 
possible for  me  to  repeat  the  language  that  he  used  :  it  is  bad 


422  MAN   AND   WIFE. 

enough  to  have  heard  it.  I  believe,  Sir  Patrick,  but  for  the 
two  men,  who  ran  up  and  laid  hold  of  him,  that  Hester  Deth- 
ridge  would  have  seen  what  she  expected  to  see.  The  change 
in  him  was  so  frightful — even  to  me,  w^ell  as  I  thought  I  knew 
him  in  his  fits  of  passion — I  tremble  when  I  think  of  it.  One 
of  the  men  who  had  restrained  him  was  almost  as  brutal  in  his 
way.  He  declared,  in  the  foulest  language,  that  if  Delamayn 
had  a  fit,  he  would  lose  the  race,  and  that  I  should  be  answer- 
able for  it.  But  for  Mr.  Speedwell,  I  don't  know  what  I  should 
have  done.  He  came  forward  directly.  '  This  is  no  place  either 
for  you  or  for  me,'  he  said — and  gave  me  his  arm,  and  led  me 
back  to  the  house.  Hester  Dethridge  met  us  in  the  passage, 
and  lifted  her  hand  to  stop  me.  Mr.  Speedwell  asked  her  what 
she  wanted.  She  looked  at  me,  and  then  looked  toward  the  gar- 
den, and  made  the  motion  of  striking  a  blow  with  her  clench- 
ed fist.  For  the  first  time  in  my  experience  of  her — I  hope  it 
was  my  fancy — I  thought  I  saw  her  smile.  Mr.  Speedwell  took 
me  out.  '  They  are  well  matched  in  that  house,'  he  said,  '  The 
woman  is  as  complete  a  savage  as  the  men.'  The  carriage  which 
I  had  seen  waiting  at  the  door  was  his.  He  called  it  up,  and 
politely  offered  me  a  place  in  it.  I  said  I  would  only  trespass 
on  his  kindness  as  far  as  to  the  railway  station.  While  we 
were  talking,  Hester  Dethridge  followed  us  to  the  door.  She 
made  the  same  motion  again  with  her  clenched  hand,  and  look- 
ed back  toward  the  garden — and  then  looked  at  me,  and  nod- 
ded her  head,  as  much  as  to  say, '  He  will  do  it  yet !'  No  words 
can  describe  how  glad  I  was  to  see  the  last  of  her.  I  hope  and 
trust  I  shall  never  set  eyes  on  her  again !" 

"  Did  you  hear  how  Mr.  Speedwell  came  to  be  at  the  house? 
Had  he  gone  of  his  own  accord  ?  or  had  he  been  sent  for  ?" 

"He  had  been  sent  for.  I  ventured  to  speak  to  him  about 
the  persons  whom  I  had  seen  in  the  garden.  Mr.  Speedwell  ex- 
plained every  thing  which  I  was  not  able  of  myself  to  under- 
stand, in  the  kindest  manner.  One  of  the  two  strange  men  in 
the  garden  was  the  trainer ;  the  other  was  a  doctor,  whom  the 
trainer  was  usually  in  the  habit  of  consulting.  It  seems  that 
the  real  reason  for  their  bringing  Geoffrey  Delamayn  away  from 
Scotland  when  they  did,  was  that  the  trainer  was  uneasy,  and 
wanted  to  be  near  London  for  medical  advice.  The  doctor,  oai 
being  consulted,  owned  that  he  was  at  a  loss  to  understand  thej 
symptoms  which  he  was  asked  to  treat.  He  had  himself  fetch- 
ed the  great  surgeon  to  Fulham,  that  morning.  Mr.  Speedwellj 
abstained  from  mentioning  that  he  had  foreseen  what  would 
happen  at  Windygates.  All  he  said  was, '  I  had  met  Mr.  Del- 
amayn in  society,  and  I  felt  interest  enough  in  the  case  to  pay 
him  a  visit — with  what  result,  you  have  seen  yourself" 

"  Did  he  tell  you  any  thing  about  Delamayn's  health  ?'* 


MAN   AND   WIFE.  423 

"  He  said  that  be  had  questioned  the  doctor  on  the  way  to 
Fulham,  and  that  some  of  the  patient's  symptoms  indicated  se- 
rious mischief.  What  the  symptoms  were  I  did  not  hear.  Mr. 
Speedwell  only  spoke  of  changes  for  the  worse  in  him  which  a 
woman  would  be  likely  to  understand.  At  one  time,  he  would 
be  so  dull  and  heedless  that  nothing  could  rouse  him.  At  an- 
other, he  flew  into  the  most  terrible  passions  without  any  ap- 
parent cause.  The  trainer  had  found  it  almost  impossible  (in 
Scotland)  to  keep  him  to  the  right  diet ;  and  the  doctor  had 
only  sanctioned  taking  the  house  at  Fulham,  after  being  fii'st 
satisfied  not  only  of  the  convenience  of  the  garden,  but  also 
that  Hester  Dethridge  could  be  thoroughly  trusted  as  a  cook. 
With  her  help,  they  had  placed  him  on  an  entirely  new  diet. 
But  they  had  found  an  unexpected  difficulty  even  in  doing 
that.  When  the  trainer  took  him  to  the  new  lodgings,  it 
turned  out  that  he  had  seen  Hester  Dethridge  at  Windygates, 
and  had  taken  the  strongest  prejudice  against  her.  On  seeing 
her  again  at  Fulham,  he  appeared  to  be  absolutely  terrified." 

"Terrified?    Why?" 

"  Nobody  knows  why.  The  trainer  and  the  doctor  together 
could  only  prevent  his  leaving  the  house,  by  threatening  to 
throw  up  the  responsibility  of  preparing  him  for  the  race,  un- 
less he  instantly  controlled  himself,  and  behaved  like  a  man 
instead  of  a  child.  Since  that  time,  he  has  become  reconciled, 
little  by  little,  to  his  new  abode — partly  through  Hester  Deth- 
ridge's  caution  in  keeping  herself  always  out  of  his  way  ;  and 
partly  through  his  own  appreciation  of  the  change  in  his  diet, 
which  Hester's  skill  in  cookery  has  enabled  the  doctor  to  make. 
Mr.  Speedwell  mentioned  some  things  which  I  have  forgotten. 
I  can  only  repeat,  Sir  Patrick,  the  result  at  which  he  has  ar- 
rived in  his  own  mind.  Coming  from  a  man  of  his  authority, 
the  opinion  seems  to  me  to  be  startling  in  the  last  degree.  If 
Geoflrey  Delamayn  runs  in  the  race  on  Thursday  next,  he  will 
do  it  at  the  risk  of  his  life," 

"  At  the  risk  of  dying  on  the  ground  ?" 

"  Jes."  _ 

Sir  Patrick's  face  became  thoughtful.  He  waited  a  little  be- 
fore he  spoke  again. 

"  We  have  not  wasted  our  time,"  he  said,  "  in  dwelling  on 
what  happened  during  your  visit  to  Fulham.  The  possibility 
of  this  man's  death  suggests  to  my  mind  serious  matter  for 
consideration.  It  is  very  desirable,  in  the  interests  of  my  niece 
and  her  husband,  that  I  should  be  able  to  foresee,  if  I  can,  how 
a  fatal  result  of  the  race  might  efiect  the  inquiry  which  is  to 
be  held  on  Saturday  next.  I  believe  vou  may  be  able  to  help 
me  in  this." 

"  You  have  only  to  tell  me  how,  Sir  Patrick." 


424  MAN   AND    WIFE. 

"  I  may  count  on  your  being  present  on  Saturday  ?" 

"  Certainly." 

"  You  thoroughly  understand  that,  in  meeting  Blanche,  you 
will  meet  a  person  estranged  from  you,  for  the  present — a 
friend  and  sister  who  has  ceased  (under  Lady  Lundie's  influ- 
ence mainly)  to  feel  as  a  friend  and  sister  toward  you  now  ?" 

"  I  was  not  quite  unprepared,  Sir  Patrick,  to  hear  that 
Blanche  had  misjudged  me.  When  I  wrote  my  letter  to  Mr. 
prinkworth,  I  warned  him  as  delicately  as  I  could,  that  his 
wife's  jealousy  might  be  very  easily  roused.  You  may  rely 
on  my  self-restraint,  no  matter  how  hardly  it  may  be  tried. 
Nothing  that  Blanche  can  say  or  do  will  alter  my  grateful  re- 
membrance of  the  past.  While  I  live,  I  love  her.  Let  that 
assurance  quiet  any  little  anxiety  that  you  may  have  felt  as 
to  my  conduct — and  tell  me  how  I  can  serve  those  interests 
which  I  have  at  heart  as  well  as  you." 

"  You  can  serve  them.  Miss  Silvester,  in  this  way.  You  can 
make  me  acquainted  with  the  position  in  which  you  stood  to- 
ward Delamayn  at  the  time  when  you  went  to  the  Craig  Fer- 
nie  inn." 

"  Put  any  questions  to  me  that  you  think  right,  Sir  Patrick." 

"  You  mean  that  ?" 

"  I  mean  it." 

"I  will  begin  by  recalling  something  which  you  have  al- 
ready told  me.     Delamayn  has  promised  you  marriage — " 

"  Over  and  over  again  !" 

"  In  words  ?" 

"  Yes." 

"  In  writing  ?" 

«  Yes." 

"  Do  you  see  what  I  am  coming  to  ?" 

"  Hardly  yet." 

"You  referred,  when  we  first  met  in  this  room,  to  a  letter 
which  you  recovered  from  Bishopriggs,  at  Perth.  I  have  as- 
certained from  Arnold  Brinkworth  that  the  sheet  of  note-paper 
stolen  from  you  contained  two  letters.  One  was  written  by 
you  to  Delamayn — the  other  was  written  by  Delamayn  to 
you.  The  substance  of  this  last  Arnold  remembered.  Your 
letter  he  had  not  read.  It  is  of  the  utmost  importance.  Miss 
Silvester,  to  let  me  see  that  correspondence  before  we  part  to- 
day." 

Anne  made  no  answer.  She  sat  with  her  clasped  hands  on 
her  lap.  Her  eyes  looked  uneasily  away  from  Sir  Patrick's 
face,  for  the  first  time. 

'-'Will  it  not  be  enough,"  she  asked,  after  an  interval,  "if  I 
tell  you  the  substance  of  my  letter,  without  showing  it?" 

"  It  will  not  be  enough,"  returned  Sir  Patrick,  in  the  plain- 


MAN   AND   WIFE.  425 

est  manner.  "I  hinted — if  you  remember — at  the  propriety 
of  my  seeing  the  letter,  when  you  first  mentioned  it ;  and  I 
observed  that  you  purposely  abstained  from  understanding 
me.  I  am  grieved  to  put  you,  on  this  occasion,  to  a  painful 
test.  But  if  you  are  to  help  me  at  this  serious  crisis,  I  have 
shown  you  the  way." 

Anne  rose  from  her  chair,  and  answered  by  putting  the  let- 
ter into  Sir  Patrick's  hands.  "  Remember  what  he  has  done 
since  I  wrote  that,"  she  said.  "And  try  to  excuse  me,  if  I 
own  that  I  am  ashamed  to  show  it  to  you  now." 

With  those  words  she  walked  aside  to  the  window.  She 
stood  there,  with  her  hand  pressed  on  her  breast,  looking  out 
absently  on  the  murky  London  view  of  house-roof  and  chim- 
ney, while  Sir  Patrick  opened  the  letter. 

It  is  necessary  to  the  right  appreciation  of  events,  that  other 
eyes  besides  Sir  Patrick's  should  follow  the  brief  course  of  the 
itorrespondence  in  this  place. 

1.  From  Anne  Silvester  to  Geoffrey  Delamayn. 

"WiNDTGATEs  HousE,  August  12,  1868. 
"  Geoffrey  Delamayn, — I  have  waited  in  the  hope  that 
you  would  ride  over  from  your  brother's  place  and  see  me — 
and  I  have  waited  in  vain.  Your  conduct  to  me  is  cruelty  it- 
self; I  will  bear  it  no  longer.  Consider!  in  your  own  inter- 
ests, consider — before  you  drive  the  miserable  woman  who  has 
trusted  you  to  despair.  You  have  promised  me  marriage  by 
all  that  is  sacred.  I  claim  your  promise.  I  insist  on  nothing 
less  than  to  be  what  you  vowed  I  should  be  —  what  I  have 
waited  all  this  weary  time  to  be — what  I  «m,  in  the  sight  of 
Heaven,  your  wedded  wife.  Lady  Lundie  gives  a  lawn-party 
here  on  the  14th.  I  know  you  have  been  asked.  I  expect 
you  to  accept  her  invitation.  If  I  don't  see  you,  I  won't  an- 
swer for  what  may  happen.  My  mind  is  made  up  to  endure 
this  suspense  no  longer.  Oh,  Geoffrey,  remember  the  past ! 
Be  faithful — be  just — to  your  loving  wife, 

"Anne  Silvestee." 

2.  From  Geoffrey  Delmnayn  to  Anne  Silvester. 

"  Dear  Anne, — Just  called  to  London  to  my  father.  They 
have  telegraphed  him  in  a  bad  way.  Stop  where  you  are,  and 
I  will  write  you.  Trust  the  bearer.  Upon  my  soul,  I'll  keep 
my  promise.     Your  loving  husband  that  is  to  be, 

"  Geoffrey  Delamayn. 

"WiNDYGATES  HoUSE,  Augt.  14,  4  P.M. 

"  In  a  mortal  hurry.     The  train  starts  4.30." 


426  MAN    AND    WIFE. 

Sir  Patrick  read  the  correspondence  with  breathless  atten- 
tion to  the  end.  At  the  last  lines  of  the  last  letter  he  did  what 
he  had  not  done  for  twenty  years  past — he  sprang  to  his  feet  at 
a  bound,  and  he  crossed  a  room  without  the  help  of  his  ivory 
cane. 

Anne  started ;  and  turning  round  from  the  window,  looked 
at  him  in  silent  surprise.  He  was  under  the  influence  of  strong 
emotion ;  his  face,  his  voice,  his  manner,  all  showed  it. 

"How  long  had  you  been  in  Scotland  when  you  wrote 
this  ?"  He  pointed  to  Anne's  letter  as  he  asked  the  question, 
putting  it  so  eagerly  that  he  stammered  over  the  first  words. 
"More  than  three  weeks?"  he  added,  with  his  bright  black 
eyes  fixed  in  absorbing  interest  on  her  face. 
'  "  Yes." 

"Are  you  sure  of  that  ?" 

"  I  am  certain  of  it." 

"  You  can  refer  to  persons  who  have  seen  you  ?" 

"  Easily." 

He  turned  the  sheet  of  note-paper,  and  pointed  to  Geofirey's 
penciled  letter  on  the  fourth  page. 

"How  long  had  he  been  in  Scotland  when  he  wrote  this? 
More  than  three  weeks,  too?" 

Anne  considered  for  a  moment. 

"  For  God's  sake,  be  careful !"  said  Sir  Patrick,  "  You  don't 
know  what  depends  on  this.  If  your  memory  is  not  clear 
about  it,  say  so." 

"  My  memory  was  confused  for  a  moment.  It  is  clear  again 
now.  He  had  been  at  his  brother's  in  Perthshire  three  weeks 
before  he  wrote  that.  And  before  he  went  to  Swanhaven,  he 
spent  three  or  four  days  in  the  valley  of  the  Esk." 

"  Are  you  sure  again  ?" 

"  Quite  sure !" 

"  Do  you  know  of  any  one  who  saw  him  in  the  valley  of  the 
Esk  ?" 

"  I  know  of  a  person  who  took  a  note  to  him  from  me." 

"  A  person  easily  found  ?" 

"  Quite  easily." 

Sir  Patrick  laid  aside  the  letter,  and  seized  in  ungovernable 
agitation  on  both  her  hands. 

"Listen  to  me,"  he  said.  "The  whole  conspiracy  against 
Arnold  Brinkworth  and  you  falls  to  the  ground  before  that 
correspondence.     When  you  and  he  met  at  the  inn — " 

He  paused,  and  looked  at  her.  Her  hands  were  beginning 
to  tremble  in  his, 

"  When  you  and  Arnold  Brinkworth  met  at  the  inn,"  he  re- 
sumed, "  the  law  of  Scotland  had  made  you  a  married  woman. 
On  the  day,  and  at  the  hour,  when  he  wrote  those  lines  at  the 


MAN    AND   WIFE.  427 

back  of  your  letter  to  him,  you  were  Geoffrey  DelamayrCs 
wedded  wife  /" 

He  stopped,  and  looked  at  her  again. 

Without  a  word  in  reply,  without  the  slightest  movement 
in  her  from  head  to  foot,  she  looked  back  at  him.  The  blank 
stillness  of  horror  was  in  her  face.  The  deadly  cold  of  horror 
was  in  her  hands. 

In  silence,  on  his  side.  Sir  Patrick  drew  back  a  step,  with  a 
faint  reflection  of  her  dismay  in  his  face.  Married — to  the  vil- 
lain who  had  not  hesitated  to  calumniate  the  woman  whom  he 
had  ruined,  and  then  to  cast  her  helpless  on  the  world.  Mar- 
ried —  to  the  traitor  who  had  not  shrunk  fi'om  betraying  Ar- 
nold's trust  in  him,  and  desolating  Arnold's  home.  Married — 
to  the  ruffian  who  would  have  struck  her  that  morning,  if  the 
hands  of  his  own  friends  had  not  held  him  back.  And  Sir  Pat- 
rick had  never  thought  of  it !  Absorbed  in  the  one  idea  of 
Blanche's  future,  he  had  never  thought  of  it,  till  that  horror- 
stricken  face  looked  at  him,  and  said.  Think  of  tny  future,  too  ! 

He  came  back  to  her.  He  took  her  cold  hand  once  more  in 
his. 

"  Forgive  me,"  he  said,  "  for  thinking  first  of  Blanche." 

Blanche's  name  seemed  to  rouse  her.  The  life  came  back  to 
her  face  ;  the  tender  brightness  began  to  shine  again  in  her 
eyes.  He  saw  that  he  might  venture  to  speak  more  plainly 
still :  he  went  on. 

"I  see  the  dreadful  sacrifice  as  you  see  it.  I  ask  myself, 
have  I  any  right,  has  Blanche  any  I'ight — " 

She  stopped  him  by  a  faint  pressure  of  his  hand. 

"  Yes,"  she  said,  softly,  "  if  Blanche's  happiness  depends 
on  it." 


THIRTEENTH  SCENE.— FULHAM. 
CHAPTER  THE  FORTY-FIFTH. 

THE   FOOT-RACE. 

A  SOLITARY  foreigner,  drifting  about  London,  drifted  toward 
Fulham  on  the  day  of  the  Foot-race. 

Little  by  little,  he  found  himself  involved  in  the  current  of 
a  throng  of  impetuous  English  people,  all  flowing  together  to- 
ward one  given  point,  and  all  decorated  alike  with  colors  of 
two  prevailing  hues — pink  and  yellow.  He  drifted  along  with 
the  stream  of  passengers  on  the  pavement  (accompanied  by  a 
stream  of  carriages  in  the  road)  until  they  stopped  with  one 
accord  at  a  gate — and  paid  admission-money  to  a  man  in  of 


428  MAN    AND    WIFE. 

fice  —  and  poured  into  a  great  open  space  ot  ground  which 
looked  like  an  uncultivated  garden. 

Arrived  here,  the  foreign  visitor  opened  his  eyes  in  wonder 
at  the  scene  revealed  to  view.  He  observed  thousands  of  peo- 
ple assembled,  composed  almost  exclusively  of  the  middle  and 
upper  classes  of  society.  They  were  congregated  round  a  vast 
inclosure ;  they  were  elevated  on  amphitheatrical  wooden 
stands ;  and  they  were  perched  on  the  roofs  of  horseless  car- 
riages, drawn  up  in  rows.  From  this  congregation  there  rose 
such  a  roar  of  eager  voices  as  he  had  never  heard  yet  from  any 
assembled  multitude  in  these  islands.  Predominating  among 
the  cries,  he  detected  one  everlasting  question.  It  began  with, 
"Who  backs — ?"  and  it  ended  in  the  alternate  pronouncing 
of^  two  British  names  unintelligible  to  foreign  ears.  Seeing 
these  extraordinary  sights,  and  hearing  these  stirring  sounds, 
he  applied  to  a  policeman  on  duty  ;  and  said,  in  his  best  pro- 
ducible English,  "  If  you  please,  sir,  what  is  this  ?" 

The  policeman  answered,  "  North  against  South — Sports." 

The  foreigner  was  informed,  but  not  satisfied.  He  pointed 
all  round  the  assembly  with  a  circular  sweep  of  his  hand  ;  and 
said, "  Why  ?» 

The  policeman  declined  to  waste  words  on  a  man  who  could 
ask  such  a  question  as  that.  He  lifted  a  large  purple  forefin- 
ger, with  a  broad  white  nail  at  the  end  of  it,  and  pointed 
gravely  to  a  printed  Bill,  posted  on  the  wall  behind  him.  The 
drifting  foreigner  drifted  to  the  Bill. 

After  reading  it  carefully,  from  top  to  bottom,  he  consulted 
a  polite  private  individual  near  at  hand,  who  proved  to  be  far 
more  communicative  than  the  policeman.  The  result  on  Ijis 
mind,  as  a  person  not  thoroughly  awakened  to  the  enormous 
national  importance  of  Athletic  Sports,  was  much  as  folloAvs  : 

The  color  of  North  is  pink.  The  color  of  South  is  yellow. 
North  produces  fourteen  pink  men,  and  South  produces  thir- 
teen yellow  men.  The  meeting  of  pink  and  yellow  is  a  solem- 
nity. The  solemnity  takes  its  rise  in  an  indomitable  national 
passion  for  hardening  the  arms  and  legs,  by  throwing  ham- 
mers and  cricket-balls  with  the  first,  and  running  and  jumping 
with  the  second.  The  object  in  view  is  to  do  this  in  public 
rivalry.  The  ends  arrived  at  are  (physically)  an  excessive  de- 
velopment of  the  muscles,  purchased  at  the  expense  of  an  ex- 
cessive strain  on  the  heart  and  the  lungs — (morally),  glory; 
conferred  at  the  moment  by  the  public  applause ;  confirmed 
the  next  day  by  a  report  in  the  newspapers.  Any  person  who 
presumes  to  see  any  physical  evil  involved  in  these  exercises 
to  the  men  who  practice  them,  or  any  moral  obstruction  in  the 
exhibition  itself  to  those  civilizing  influences  on  which  the 
true  greatness  of  all  nations  depends,  is  a  person  without  a 


MAN    AND    WIFE.  429 

biceps,  who  is  simply  incomprehensible.  Muscular  England 
develops  itself,  and  takes  no  notice  of  him. 

The  foreigner  mixed  with  the  assembly,  and  looked  more 
closely  at  the  social  spectacle  around  him. 

He  had  met  with  these  people  before.  He  had  seen  them 
(for  instance)  at  the  theatre,  and  had  observed  their  manners 
and  customs  with  considerable  curiosity  and  surprise.  When 
the  curtain  was  down,  they  were  so  little  interested  in  what 
they  had  come  to  see,  that  they  had  hardly  spirit  enough  to 
speak  to  each  other  between  the  acts.  When  the  curtain  was 
up,  if  the  play  made  any  appeal  to  their  sympathy  with  any 
of  the  higher  and  nobler  emotions  of  humanity,  they  received 
it  as  something  wearisome,  or  sneered  at  it  as  something  ab- 
surd. The  public  feeling  of  the  countrymen  of  Shakspeai'e, 
so  far  as  they  represenied  it,  recognized  Ijut  two  duties  in  the 
dramatist — the  duty  of  making  them  laugh,  and  the  duty  of 
getting  it  over  soon.  The  two  great  merits  of  a  stage  propri- 
etor, in  England  (judging  by  the  rare  applause  of  his  cultivated 
customers),  consisted  in  spending  plenty  of  money  on  his  scen- 
ery, and  in  hiring  plenty  of  brazen-faced  women  to  exhibit  their 
bosoms  and  their  legs.  Not  at  theatres  only;  but  among  oth- 
er gatherings,  in  other  places,  the  foreigner  had  noticed  the 
same  stolid  languor  where  any  effort  was  exacted  fi'om  gen- 
teel English  brains,  and  the  same  stupid  contempt  Avhere  any 
appeal  was  made  to  genteel  English  hearts.  Preserve  us  from 
enjoying  any  thing  but  jokes  and  scandal !  Preserve  us  from 
respecting  any  thing  but  rank  and  money!  There  were  the 
social  aspirations  of  these  insular  ladies  and  gentlemen,  as  ex- 
pressed under  other  circumstances,  and  as  betrayed  amidst 
other  scenes.  Here  all  was  changed.  Here  was  the  strong 
feeling,  the  breathless  interest,  the  hearty  enthusiasm,  not  vis- 
ible elsewhere.  Here  were  the  superb  gentlemen  who  were  too 
weary  to  speak  when  an  Art  was  addressing  them,  shouting 
themselves  hoarse  with  burst  on  burst  of  genuine  applause. 
Here  were  the  fine  ladies  who  yawned  behind  their  fans  at  the 
bare  idea  of  being  called  on  to  think  or  to  feel,  waving  their 
handkerchiefs  in  honest  delight,  and  actually  flushing  with  ex- 
citement thi-ough  their  powder  and  their  paint.  And  all  for 
what?  All  for  running  and  jumping — all  for  throwing  ham- 
mers and  balls. 

The  foreigner  looked  at  it,  and  tried,  as  a  citizen  of  a  civil- 
ized country,  to  understand  it.  He  was  still  trying  —  when 
there  occui-red  a  pause  in  the  performances. 

Certain  hurdles,  which  had  served  to  exhibit  the  present 
satisfactory  state  of  civilization  (in  jumping)  among  the  upper 
classes,  were  removed.  The  privileged  persons  who  had  duties 
to  perform  Avithin  the  inclosure,  looked  all  round  it;  and  dis- 


430  MAN    AND   WIFE. 

appeared  one  after  another.  A  great  hush  of  expectation  per- 
vaded the  whole  assembly.  Something  of  no  common  interest 
and  importance  was  evidently  about  to  take  place.  On  a  sud- 
den, the  silence  was  broken  by  a  roar  of  cheering  from  the  mob 
in  the  road  outside  the  grounds.  People  looked  at  each  other 
excitedly,  and  said,  "  One  of  them  has  come."  The  silence  pre- 
vailed again — and  was  a  second  time  broken  by  another  roar 
of  applause.  People  nodded  to  each  other  with  an  air  of  relief 
and  said,  "  Both  of  them  have  come."  Then  the  great  hush 
fell  on  the  crowd  once  more;  and  all  eyes  looked  toward  one 
particular  point  of  the  ground,  occupied  by  a  little  wooden 
pavilion,  with  the  blinds  down  over  the  open  windows,  and 
the  door  closed. 

The  foreigner  was  deeply  impressed  by  the  silent  expecta- 
tion of  the  great  throng  about  him.  He  felt  his  own  sympa- 
thies stirred,  without  knowing  why.  He  believed  himself  to 
be  on  the  point  of  understanding  the  English  people. 

Some  ceremony  of  grave  importance  was  evidently  in  prep- 
aration. Was  a  great  orator  going  to  address  the  assembly? 
Was  a  glorious  anniversary  to  be  commemorated?  Was  a 
religious  service  to  be  performed  ?  He  looked  round  him  to 
apply  for  information  once  more.  Two  gentlemen — who  con- 
trasted favorably,  so  far  as  refinement  of  manner  was  concerned, 
Avith  most  of  the  spectators  present — were  slowly  making  their 
way,  at  that  moment,  through  the  crowd  near  him.  He  re- 
spectfully asked  what  national  solemnity  was  now  about  to 
take  place.  They  informed  him  that  a  pair  of  strong  young 
men  were  going  to  run  round  the  inclosure  for  a  given  num- 
ber of  turns,  with  the  object  of  ascertaining  which  could  run 
the  fastest  of  the  two. 

The  foreigner  lifted  his  hands  and  eyes  to  heaven.  Oh  mul- 
tifarious Providence !  who  would  liave  suspected  that  the  in- 
finite diversities  of  thy  creation  included  such  beings  as  these! 
With  that  aspiration,  he  turned  his  back  on  the  race-course, 
and  left  the  place. 

On  his  way  out  of  the  grounds  he  had  occasion  to  use  his 
handkerchief,  and  found  that  it  was  gone.  He  felt  next  for 
his  purse.  His  pui'se  was  missing  too.  When  he  was  back 
again  in  his  own  country,  intelligent  inquiries  were  addressed 
to  him  on  the  subject  of  England.  He  had  but  one  reply  to 
give.  "The  whole  nation  is  a  mystery  to  me.  Of  all  the  En- 
glish people  I  only  understand  the  English  thieves !" 

In  the  mean  time  the  two  gentlemen,  making  their  way 
through  the  crowd,  reached  a  wicket-gate  in  the  fence  which 
surrounded  the  inclosure. 

Presenting  a  written  order  to  the  policeman  in  charge  of  the 


MAN   AND   WITH.  431 

gate,  they  were  forthwith  admitted  within  the  sacred  precincts. 
The  closely  packed  spectators,  regarding  them  with  mixed 
feelings  of  envy  and  curiosity,  wondered  who  they  might  be. 
Were  they  referees  appointed  to  act  at  the  coming  race  ?  or 
reporters  for  the  newspapers?  or  commissioners  of  police? 
They  were  neither  the  one  nor  the  other.  They  were  only 
Mr,  Speedwell,  the  surgeon,  and  Sir  Patrick  Lundie, 

The  two  gentlemen  walked  into  the  centre  of  the  inclosure, 
and  looked  round  them. 

The  grass  on  which  they  were  standing  was  girdled  by  a 
broad  smooth  path,  composed  of  finely-sifted  ashes  and  sand — 
and  this  again  was  surrounded  by  the  fence  and  by  the  spec- 
tators ranked  behind  it.  Above  the  lines  thus  formed  rose  on 
one  side  the  amphitheatres  with  their  tiers  of  crowded  bench- 
es, and  on  the  other  the  long  rows  of  carriages  with  the  sight- 
seers inside  and  out.  The  evening  sun  was  shining  brightly, 
the  light  and  shade  lay  together  in  grand  masses,  the  varied 
colors  of  objects  blended  softly  one  with  the  other.  It  was  a 
splendid  and  an  inspiriting  scene. 

Sir  Patrick  turned  from  the  rows  of  eager  faces  all  round 
him  to  his  friend  the  surgeon. 

"  Is  there  one  person  to  be  found  in  this  vast  crowd,"  he 
asked,  "  who  has  come  to  see  the  race  with  the  doubt  in  his 
mind  which  has  brought  us  to  see  it  ?" 

Mr.  Speedwell  shook  his  head.  "  Not  one  of  them  knows  or 
cares  what  the  struggle  may  cost  the  men  who  engage  in  it." 

Sir  Patrick  looked  round  him  again.  "  I  almost  wish  I  had 
not  come  to  see  it,"  he  said.     "  If  this  wretched  man — " 

The  surgeon  interposed,  "Don't  dwell  needlessly,  Sir  Pat- 
rick, on  the  gloomy  view,"  he  rejoined.  "  The  opinion  I  have 
formed  has,  thus  far,  no  positive  grounds  to  rest  on.  I  am 
guessing  rightly,  as  I  believe,  but  at  the  same  time  I  am  guess- 
ing in  the  dark.  Appearances  may  have  misled  me.  There 
may  be  reserves  of  vital  force  in  Mr.  Delamayn's  constitution 
which  I  don't  suspect.  I  am  here  to  learn  a  lesson — not  to  see 
a  prediction  fulfilled.  I  know  his  health  is  broken,  and  I  be- 
lieve he  is  going  to  run  this  race  at  his  own  proper  peril. 
Don't  feel  too  sure  beforehand  of  the  event.  The  event  may 
prove  me  to  be  wrong." 

For  the  moment  Sir  Patrick  dropped  the  subject.  He  was 
not  in  his  usual  spirits. 

Since  his  interview  with  Anne  had  satisfied  him  that  she  was 
Geoffrey's  lawful  wife,  the  conviction  had  inevitably  foi'ced 
itself  on  his  mind  that  the  one  possible  chance  for  her  in  the 
future  was  the  chance  of  Geoffrey's  death.  Horrible  as  it  was 
to  him,  he  had  been  possessed  by  that  one  idea — go  where  he 
might,  do  what  he  might,  struggle  as  he  might  to  force  bis 


432  MAN   AND   WIFE. 

thoughts  in  other  directions.  He  looked  round  the  broad  ash- 
en path  on  which  the  race  was  to  be  run,  conscious  that  he  had 
a  secret  interest  in  it  which  it  was  unutterably  repugnant  to 
him  to  feel.  He  tried  to  resume  the  conversation  with  his 
friend,  and  to  lead  it  to  other  topics.  The  effort  was  useless. 
In  despite  of  himself,  he  returned  to  the  one  fatal  subject  of 
the  struggle  that  was  now  close  at  hand. 

"  How  many  times  must  they  go  round  this  inclosure,"  he 
inquired,  "  before  the  race  is  ended  ?" 

Mr.  Speedwell  turned  toward  a  gentleman  who  was  approach- 
ing them  at  the  moment.  "  Here  is  somebody  coming  who  can 
tell  us,"  he  said. 

"  You  know  him  ?" 

"He  is  one  of  my  patients." 

"  Who  is  he  ?" 

"  After  the  two  runners  he  is  the  most  important  personage  on 
the  ground.    He  is  the  final  authority — the  umpire  of  the  race." 

The  person  thus  described  was  a  middle-aged  man,  with  a 
prematurely  wrinkled  face,  with  prematurely  white  hair,  and 
with  something  of  a  military  look  about  him — brief  in  speech, 
and  quick  in  manner. 

"The  path  measures  four  hundred  and  forty  yards  round," 
he  said,  when  the  surgeon  had  repeated  Sir  Patrick's  question 
to  him.  "In  plainer  words,  and  not  to  put  you  to  your  arith- 
metic, once  round  it  is  a  quarter  of  a  mile.  Each  round  is  call- 
ed a  'Lap.'  The  men  must  run  sixteen  Laps  to  finish  the  race. 
Not  to  put  you  to  your  arithmetic  again,  they  must  run  four 
miles — the  longest  race  of  this  kind  which  it  is  customary  to 
attempt  at  sports  like  these." 

"  Professional  pedestrians  exceed  that  limit,  do  they  not  ?" 

"  Considerably — on  certain  occasions." 

"Are  they  a  long-lived  race?" 

"  Far  from  it.  They  are  exceptions  when  they  live  to  be 
old  men." 

Mr.  Speedwell  looked  at  Sir  Patrick.  Sir  Patrick  put  a  ques- 
tion to  the  umpire. 

"You  have  just  told  us,"  he  said,  "that  the  two  young  men 
who  appear  to-day  are  going  to  run  the  longest  distance  yet  at- 
tempted in  their  experience.  Is  it  generally  thought,  by  per- 
sons who  understand  such  things,  that  they  are  both  fit  to 
bear  the  exertion  demanded  of  them  ?" 

"  You  can  judge  for  yourself,  sir.     Here  is  one  of  them." 

He  pointed  toward  the  pavilion.  At  the  same  moment  there 
rose  a  mighty  clapping  of  hands  from  the  great  throng  of 
spectators.  Fleetwood,  champion  of  the  North,  decorated  in 
his  pink  colors,  descended  the  pavilion  steps  and  walked  into 
the  arena.  \ 


MAN   AND  WIFE.  433 

Young,  lithe,  and  elegant,  with  supple  strength  expressed  in 
every  movement  of  his  limbs,  with  a  bright  smile  on  his  reso- 
lute young  face,  the  man  of  the  North  won  the  women's  hearts 
at  starting.  The  murmur  of  eager  talk  rose  among  them  on 
all  sides.  The  men  were  quieter — especially  the  men  who 
understood  the  subject.  It  was  a  serious  question  with  these 
experts  whether  Fleetwood  was  not  "  a  little  too  fine."  Su- 
perbly trained,  it  was  admitted — but,  possibly,  a  little  over- 
trained for  a  four-mile  race. 

The  Northern  hero  was  followed  into  the  inclosure  by  his 
friends  and  backers,  and  by  his  trainer.  This  last  carried  a  tin 
can  in  his  hand.  "  Cold  water,"  the  umpire  explained.  "  If 
he  gets  exhausted,  his  trainer  will  pick  him  up  with  a  dash  of 
it  as  he  goes  by." 

A  new  burst  of  hand-clapping  rattled  all  round  the  arena. 
Delamayn,  champion  of  the  South,  decorated  in  his  yellow  col- 
ors, presented  himself  to  the  public  view. 

The  immense  hum  of  voices  rose  louder  and  louder  as  he 
walked  into  the  centre  of  the  great  green  space.  Surprise  at 
the  extraordinary  contrast  between  the  two  men  was  the  prev- 
alent emotion  of  the  moment.  Geoffrey  was  more  than  a  head 
taller  than  his  antagonist,  and  broader  in  full  proportion. 
The  women,  who  had  been  charmed  with  the  easy  gait  and  con- 
fident smile  of  Fleetwood,  were  all  more  or  less  painfully  im- 
pressed by  the  sullen  strength  of  the  Southern  man,  as  he  pass- 
ed before  them  slowly,  with  his  head  down  and  his  brows  knit, 
deaf  to  the  applause  showered  on  him,  reckless  of  the  eyes  that 
looked  at  him;  speaking  to  nobody;  concentrated  in  him- 
self; biding  his  time.  He  held  the  men  who  understood  the 
subject  breathless  with  interest.  There  it  was  !  the  famous 
"  staying  power "  that  was  to  endure  in  the  last  terrible  half- 
mile  of  the  race,  when  the  nimble  and  jaunty  Fleetwood  was 
run  off  his  legs.  Whispers  had  been  spread  abroad  hinting  at 
something  which  had  gone  wrong  with  Delamayn  in  his  train- 
ing. And  now  that  all  eyes  could  judge  him,  his  appearance 
suggested  criticism  in  some  quarters.  It  was  exactly  the  op- 
posite of  the  criticism  passed  on  his  antagonist.  The  doubt  as 
to  Delamayn  was  whether  he  had  been  sufficiently  trained. 
Still  the  solid  strength  of  the  man,  the  slow,  panther-like 
smoothness  of  his  movements — and,  above  all,  his  great  reputa- 
tion in  the  world  of  muscle  and  sport — had  their  effect.  The 
betting  which,  with  occasional  fluctuations,  had  held  steadily 
in  his  favor  thus  far,  held,  now  that  he  was  publicly  seen, 
steadily  in  his  favor  still.  "Fleetwood  for  shorter  distances, 
if  you  like ;  but  Delamayn  for  a  four-mile  race." 

"  Do  you  think  he  sees  us  ?"  whispered  Sir  Patrick  to  the 
Burgeon. 
28 


434  MAN   AND    WIFE. 

"He  sees  nobody." 

"  Can  you  judge  of  the  condition  he  is  in,  at  this  distance  ?" 

"  He  has  twice  the  muscular  strength  of  the  other  man.  His 
trunk  and  limbs  are  magnificent.  It  is  useless  to  ask  me  more 
than  that  about  his  condition.  We  are  too  far  from  him  to  see 
his  face  plainly." 

The  conversation  among  the  audience  began  to  flag  again ; 
and  the  silent  expectation  set  in  among  them  once  more.  One 
by  one  the  diflerent  persons  ofiicially  connected  with  the  race 
gathered  together  on  the  grass.  The  trainer  Perry  was  among 
them,  with  his  can  of  water  in  his  hand,  in  anxious  whispering 
conversation  with  his  principal — giving  him  the  last  words  of 
advice  before  the  start.  The  trainer's  doctor,  leaving  them  to- 
gether, came  up  to  pay  his  respects  to  his  illustrious  colleague. 

"How  has  he  got  on  since  I  was  at  Fulham ?"  asked  Mr. 
Speedwell. 

"  First-rate,  sir !  It  was  one  of  his  bad  days  when  you  saw 
him.     He  has  done  wonders  in  the  last  eight-and-forty  hours." 

"  Is  he  going  to  win  the  race  ?" 

Privately  the  doctor  had  done  what  Perry  had  done  before 
him — he  had  backed  Geoffrey's  antagonist.  Publicly  he  was 
true  to  his  colors.  He  cast  a  disparaging  look  at  Fleetwood 
— and  answered  Yes,  without  the  slightest  hesitation. 

At  that  point,  the  conversation  was  suspended  by  a  sudden 
movement  in  the  inclosure.  The  runners  were  on  their  way  to 
the  starting-place.     The  moment  of  the  race  had  come. 

Shoulder  to  shoulder,  the  two  men  waited — each  with  his 
foot  touching  the  mark.  The  firing  of  a  pistol  gave  the  signal 
for  the  start.  At  the  instant  when  the  report  sounded  they 
were  off. 

Fleetwood  at  once  took  the  lead ;  Delamayn  following,  at 
from  two  to  three  yards  behind  him.  In  that  order,  they  ran 
the  first  round,  the  second,  and  the  third  —  both  reserving 
their  strength ;  both  watched  with  breathless  interest  by  ev- 
ery soul  in  the  place.  The  trainers,  with  their  cans  in  their 
hands,  ran  backward  and  forward  over  the  grass,  meeting  their 
men  at  certain  points,  and  eying  them  narrowly,  in  silence. 
The  official  persons  stood  together  in  a  group,  their  eyes  fol- 
lowing the  runners  round  and  round  with  the  closest  attention. 
The  trainer's  doctor,  still  attached  to  his  illustrious  colleague, 
offered  the  necessary  explanations  to  Mr.  Speedwell  and  his 
friend. 

"  Nothing  much  to  see  for  the  first  mile,  sir,  except  the 
'style' of  the  two  men." 

"You  mean  they  are  not  really  exerting  themselves  yet?'* 

"  No  ;  getting  their  wind,  and  feelins?  their  legs.    Pretty  run- 


MAN  AND  WIFB.  435 

ner,  Fleetwood — if  you  notice,  sir  ?  Gets  his  legs  a  trifle  better 
iu  front,  and  hardly  lifts  his  heels  quite  so  high  as  our  man.  His 
action's  the  best  of  the  two  ;  I  grant  that.  But  just  look,  as 
they  come  by,  which  keeps  the  straightest  line.  There's  where 
Delamayn  has  him !  It's  a  steadier,  stronger,  truer  pace ;  and 
you'll  see  it  tell  when  they're  half-way  through."  So,  for  the 
first  three  rounds,  the  doctor  expatiated  on  the  two  contrasted 
"styles" — in  terms  mercifully  adapted  to  the  comprehension 
of  persons  unacquainted  with  the  language  of  the  running  ring. 

At  the  fourth  round  —  in  other  words,  at  the  round  which 
completed  the  first  mile,  the  first  change  in  the  relative  posi- 
tion of  the  runners  occurred.  Delamayn  suddenly  dashed  to 
the  front.  Fleetwood  smiled  as  the  other  passed  him.  Dela- 
mayn held  the  lead  till  they  were  half-way  through  the  fifth 
round — when  Fleetwood,  at  a  hint  from  his  trainer,  forced  the 
pace.  He  lightly  passed  Delamayn  in  an  instant ;  and  led 
again  to  the  completion  of  the  sixth  round.  At  the  opening 
of  the  seventh,  Delamayn  forced  the  pace  on  his  side.  For  a 
few  moments,  they  ran  exactly  abreast.  Then  Delamayn  drew 
away  inch  by  inch ;  and  recovered  the  lead.  The  first  burst 
of  applause  (led  by  the  South)  rang  out,  as  the  big  man  beat 
Fleetwood  at  his  own  tactics,  and  headed  him  at  the  critical 
moment  when  the  race  was  nearly  half  run. 

"  It  begins  to  look  as  if  Delamayn  teas  going  to  win  !"  said 
Sir  Patrick. 

The  trainer's  doctor  forgot  himself.  Infected  by  the  rising 
excitement  of  every  body  about  him,  he  let  out  the  truth. 

"  Wait  a  bit !"  he  said.  "  Fleetwood  has  got  directions  to 
let  him  pass — Fleetwood  is  waiting  to  see  what  he  can  do." 

"  Cunning,  you  see.  Sir  Patrick,  is  one  of  the  elements  in  a 
manly  sport,"  said  Mr.  Speedwell,  quietly. 

At  the  end  of  the  seventh  round,  Fleetwood  proved  the  doc- 
tor to  be  right.  He  shot  past  Delamayn  like  an  arrow  from  a 
bow.  At  the  end  of  the  eighth  round,  he  was  leading  by  two 
yards.  Half  the  race  had  then  been  run.  Time,  ten  minutes 
and  thirty-three  seconds. 

Toward  the  end  of  the  ninth  round,  the  pace  slackened  a  lit- 
tle ;  and  Delamayn  was  in  front  again.  He  kept  ahead,  until 
the  opening  of  the  eleventh  round.  At  that  point,  Fleetwood 
flung  up  one  hand  in  the  air  with  a  gesture  of  triumph,  and 
bounded  past  Delamayn  with  a  shout  of "  Hooray  for  the 
North  ?"  The  shout  was  echoed  by  the  spectators.  In  pro- 
portion as  the  exertion  began  to  tell  upon  the  men,  so  the  ex- 
citement steadily  rose  among  the  people  looking  at  them. 

At  the  twelth  round,  Fleetwood  was  leading  by  six  yards. 
Cries  of  triumph  rose  among  the  adherents  of  the  North,  met 
by  counter-cries  of  defiance  from  the  South.    At  the  next  turij 


486  MAN  AND  WIFE. 

Delamayn  resolutely  lessened  the  distance  between  his  antag- 
onist and  himself.  At  the  opening  of  the  fourteenth  round, 
they  were  coming  side  by  side.  A  few  yards  more,  and  Dela- 
mayn was  in  front  again,  amidst  a  roar  of  applause  from  the 
whole  public  voice.  Yet  a  few  yards  farther,  and  Fleetwood 
neared  him ;  passed  him ;  dropped  behind  again  ;  led  again ; 
and  was  passed  again  at  the  end  of  the  round.  The  excite- 
ment rose  to  its  highest  pitch,  as  the  runners  —  gasping  for 
breath  ;  with  dark-flushed  faces,  and  heaving  breasts  —  altei*- 
nately  passed  and  repassed  each  other.  Oaths  were  heard  now 
as  well  as  cheers.  Women  turned  pale,  and  men  set  their 
teeth,  as  the  last  round  but  one  began. 

At  the  opening  of  it,  Delamayn  was  still  in  advance.  Be- 
fore six  yards  more  had  been  covered,  Fleetwood  betrayed  the 
purpose  of  his  running  in  the  previous  round,  and  electrified 
the  whole  assembly,  by  dashing  past  his  antagonist — for  the 
first  time  in  the  race  at  the  top  of  his  speed.  Every  body 
present  could  see,  now,  that  Delamayn  had  been  allowed  to 
lead  on  sufierance — had  been  dexterously  drawn  on  to  put  out 
his  whole  power — and  had  then,  and  not  till  then,  been  seri- 
ously deprived  of  the  lead.  He  made  another  efibrt,  with  a 
resolution  that  roused  the  public  enthusiasm  to  frenzy.  While 
the  voices  were  roaring ;  while  the  hats  and  handkerchiefs 
were  waving  round  the  course ;  while  the  actual  event  of  the 
race  was,  for  one  supreme  moment,  still  in  doubt — Mr.  Speed- 
well caught  Sir  Patrick  by  the  arm. 

"Prepare  yourself !" he  whispered.     "It's  all  over." 

As  the  words  passed  his  lips,  Delamayn  swerved  on  the  path. 
His  trainer  dashed  water  over  him.  He  rallied,  and  ran  an- 
other step  or  two — swerved  again — staggered — lifted  his  arm 
to  his  mouth  with  a  hoarse  cry  of  rage  —  fastened  his  own 
teeth  in  his  flesh  like  a  wild  beast — and  fell  senseless  on  the 
course. 

A  Babel  of  sounds  arose.  The  cries  of  alarm  in  some  places, 
mingling  with  the  shouts  of  triumph  from  the  backers  of  Fleet- 
wood in  others — as  their  man  ran  lightly  on  to  win  the  now 
uncontested  race.  Not  the  inclosure  only,  but  the  course  it- 
self was  invaded  by  the  crowd.  In  the  midst  of  the  tumult 
the  fallen  man  was  drawn  on  to  the  grass — with  Mr.  Speedwell 
and  the  trainer's  doctor  in  attendance  on  him.  At  the  terrible 
moment  when  the  surgeon  laid  his  hand  on  the  heart,  Fleet- 
wood passed  the  spot — a  passage  being  forced  for  him  through 
the  people  by  his  friends  and  the  police  —  running  the  six- 
teenth and  last  round  of  the  race. 

Had  the  beaten  man  fainted  under  it,  or  had  he  died  under 
it  ?  Every  body  waited,  with  their  eyes  riveted  on  the  sur- 
geon's hand. 


MAN  AND  WIPE.  439 

The  surgeon  looked  up  from  him,  and  called  for  water  to 
throw  over  his  face,  for  brandy  to  put  into  his  mouth.  He 
was  coming  to  life  again — he  had  survived  the  race.  The  last 
shout  of  applause  which  hailed  Fleetwood's  victory  rang  out 
as  they  lifted  him  from  the  ground  to  carry  him  to  the  pavil- 
ion. Sir  Patrick  (admitted  at  Mr,  Speedwell's  request)  was 
the  one  stranger  allowed  to  pass  the  door.  At  the  moment 
when  he  was  ascending  the  steps,  some  one  touched  his  arm. 
It  was  Captain  Newenden, 

"  Do  the  doctors  answer  for  his  life  ?"  asked  the  captain,  "  I 
can't  get  my  niece  to  leave  the  ground  till  she  is  satisfied  of 
that," 

Mr.  Speedwell  heard  the  question,  and  replied  to  it  briefly 
from  the  top  of  the  pavilion  steps. 

"  For  the  present — yes,"  he  said. 

The  captain  thanked  him,  and  disappeared. 

They  entered  the  pavilion.  The  necessary  restorative  meas- 
ures were  taken  under  Mr,  Speedwell's  directions.  There  the 
conquered  athlete  lay :  outwardly  an  inert  mass  of  strength, 
formidable  to  look  at,  even  in  its  fall ;  inwardly,  a  weaker 
creature,  in  all  that  constitutes  vital  force,  than  the  fly  that 
buzzed  on  the  window-pane.  By  slow  degrees  the  fluttering 
life  came  back.  The  sun  was  setting;  and  the  evening  light 
was  beginning  to  fail,  Mr.  Speedwell  beckoned  to  Perry  to 
follow  him  into  an  unoccupied  corner  of  the  room. 

"  In  half  an  hour  or  less  he  will  be  well  enough  to  be  taken 
home.  Where  are  his  friends?  He  has  a  brother  —  hasn't 
he?" 

"  His  brother's  in  Scotland,  sir. " 

"His  father?" 

Perry  scratched  his  head.  "  From  all  I  hear,  sir,  he  and  his 
father  don't  agree." 

Mr.  Speedwell  applied  to  Sir  Patrick. 

"Do  you  know  any  thing  of  his  family  affairs?" 

"  Very  little.  I  believe  what  the  man  has  told  you  to  be 
the  truth." 

"  Is  his  mother  living  ?" 

"  Yes." 

"  I  will  write  to  her  myself  In  the  mean  time,  somebody 
must  take  him  home.  He  has  plenty  of  friends  here.  Where 
are  they  ?" 

He  looked  out  of  the  window  as  he  spoke.  A  throng  of  peo- 
ple had  gathered  round  the  pavilion,  waiting  to  hear  the  latest 
news.  Mr.  Speedwell  directed  Perry  to  go  out  and  search 
among  them  for  any  friends  of  his  employer  whom  he  might 
know  by  sight.  Perry  hesitated,  and  scratched  his  head  for 
the  second  time. 


440  MAN    AND    WIFE. 

"  What  are  you  waiting  for  ?"  asked  the  surgeon,  sharply. 
"  You  know  his  friends  by  sight,  don't  you  ?" 

"  I  don't  think  I  shall  find  them  outside,"  said  Perry. 

"Why  not?" 

"  They  backed  him  heavily,  sir — and  they  have  all  lost." 

Deaf  to  this  unanswerable  reason  for  the  absence  of  friends, 
Mr.  Speedwell  insisted  on  sending  Perry  out  to  search  among 
the  persons  who  composed  the  crowd.  The  trainer  returned 
with  his  report.  "  You  were  right,  sir.  There  are  some  of  his 
friends  outside.     They  want  to  see  him." 

"  Let  two  or  three  of  them  in." 

Three  came  in.  They  stared  at  him.  They  uttered  brief 
expressions  of  pity  in  slang.  They  said  to  Mr.  Speedwell, "  We 
wanted  to  see  him.     What  is  it — eh  ?" 

"  It's  a  break-down  in  his  health." 

"  Bad  training  ?" 

"Athletic  Sports." 

"  Oh  !     Thank  you.     Good-evening." 

Mr.  Speedwell's  answer  drove  them  out  like  a  flock  of  sheep 
before  a  dog.  There  was  not  even  time  to  put  the  question  to 
them  as  to  who  was  to  take  him  home. 

"  ril  look  after  him,  sir,"  said  Perry.     "  You  can  trust  me." 

"  Pll  go  too,"  added  the  trainer's  doctor ;  "  and  see  him  lit- 
tered down  for  the  night." 

(The  only  two  men  who  had  "  hedged  "  their  bets,  by  pri- 
vately backing  his  opponent,  were  also  the  only  two  men  who 
volunteered  to  take  him  home  !) 

They  went  back  to  the  sofa  on  which  he  was  lying.  His 
bloodshot  eyes  were  rolling  heavily  and  vacantly  about  him, 
on  the  search  for  something.  They  rested  on  the  doctor — and 
looked  away  again.  They  turned  to  Mr.  Speedwell — and  stop- 
ped, riveted  on  his  face.  The  surgeon  bent  over  him,  and  said, 
"  What  is  it  ?" 

He  answered  with  a  thick  accent  and  laboring  breath — ut- 
tering a  word  at  a  time :  "  Shall — I — die  ?" 

"  I  hope  not." 

"  Sure  ?" 

«  No." 

He  looked  round  him  again.  This  time  his  eyes  rested  on 
the  trainer.     Perry  came  forward. 

"  What  can  I  do  for  you,  sir  ?" 

The  reply  came  slowly,  as  before.     "  My — coat — pocket." 

"This  one,  sir?" 

"  No." 

"  This  ?" 

"Yes.    Book."  ^ 

The  trainer  felt  in  the  pocket,  and  produced  a  betting-book. 


MAN   AND   WIFB.  441 

"  What's  to  be  done  with  this,  sir  ?" 

"  Read." 

The  trainer  held  the  book  before  him ;  open  at  the  last  two 
pages  on  which  entries  had  been  made.  He  rolled  his  head 
impatiently  from  side  to  side  of  the  sofa  pillow.  It  was  plain 
that  he  was  not  yet  sufficiently  recovered  to  be  able  to  read 
what  he  had  written. 

"  Shall  I  read  for  you,  sir  ?" 

"  Yes." 

The  trainer  read  three  entries,  one  after  another,  without  re- 
sult ;  they  had  all  been  honestly  settled.  At  the  fourth  the 
prostrate  man  said,  "  Stop  !"  This  was  the  first  of  the  entries 
which  still  depended  on  a  future  event.  It  recorded  the  wa- 
ger laid  at  Windygates,  when  Geofirey  had  backed  himself  (in 
defiance  of  the  surgeon's  opinion)  to  row  in  the  University 
boat-race  next  spring — and  had  forced  Arnold  Brinkworth  to 
bet  against  him. 

"  Well,  sir  ?     What's  to  be  done  about  this  ?" 

He  collected  his  strength  for  the  efibrt ;  and  answered  by  a 
word  at  a  time. 

"  Write — brother — Julius.     Pay — Arnold — wins." 

His  lifted  hand,  solemnly  emphasizing  what  he  said,  dropped 
at  his  side.  He  closed  his  eyes,  and  fell  into  a  heavy  sterto- 
rous sleep.  Give  him  his  due.  Scoundrel  as  he  was,  give  him 
his  due.  The  awful  moment,  when  his  life  was  trembling  in 
the  balance,  found  him  true  to  the  last  living  faith  left  among 
the  men  of  lais  tribe  and  time — the  faith  of  the  betting-book. 

Sir  Patrick  and  Mr.  Speedwell  quitted  the  race-ground  to- 
gether ;  GeofiTrey  having  been  previously  removed  to  his  lodg- 
ings hard  by.  They  met  Arnold  Brinkworth  at  the  gate.  He 
had,  by  his  own  desire,  kept  out  of  view  among  the  crowd  ; 
and  he  decided  on  walking  back  by  himself  The  separation 
from  Blanche  had  changed  him  in  all  his  habits.  He  asked  but 
two  favors  during  the  interval  which  was  to  elapse  before  he 
saw  his  wife  again — to  be  allowed  to  bear  it  in  his  own  way, 
and  to  be  left  alone. 

Relieved  of  the  oppression  which  had  kept  him  silent  while 
the  race  was  in  progress,  Sir  Patrick  put  a  question  to  the  sur- 
geon as  they  drove  home,  which  had  been  in  his  mind  from  the 
moment  when  Geofirey  had  lost  the  day. 

"  I  hai'dly  understand  the  anxiety  you  showed  about  Dela- 
mayn,"  he  said, "  when  you  found  that  he  had  only  fainted  un- 
der the  fatigue.  Was  it  something  more  than  a  common  faint- 
ing-fit?" 

"It  is  useless  to  conceal  it  now,"  replied  Mr.  Speedwell. 
"  He  has  had  a  narrow  escape  from  a  paralytic  stroke." 


442  MAN  AND  WIFE. 

"Was  that  what  you  dreaded  when  you  spoke  to  him  at 
Windygates  ?" 

"That  was  what  I  saw  in  his  face  when  I  gave  him  the 
warning.  I  was  right,  so  far.  I  was  wrong  in  my  estimate 
of  the  reserve  of  vital  power  left  in  him.  When  he  dropped 
on  the  race-course,  I  firmly  believed  we  should  find  him  a  dead 
man." 

"  Is  it  hereditary  paralysis  ?  His  father's  last  illness  was 
of  that  sort." 

Mr.  Speedwell  smiled.  "  Hereditary  paralysis  ?"  he  repeat- 
ed. "  Why  the  man  is  (naturally)  a  phenomenon  of  health 
and  strength  —  in  the  prime  of  his  life.  Hereditary  paralysis 
might  have  found  him  out  thirty  years  hence.  His  rowing 
and  his  running,  for  the  last  four  years,  are  alone  answerable 
for  what  has  happened  to-day." 

Sir  Patrick  ventured  on  a  suggestion. 

"  Surely,"  he  said,  "  with  your  name  to  compel  attention  to 
it,  you  ought  to  make  this  public — as  a  warning  to  others  ?" 

"  It  would  be  quite  useless.  Delamayn  is  far  from  being  the 
first  man  who  has  dropped  at  foot-racing,  under  the  cruel  stress 
laid  on  the  vital  organs.  The  public  have  a  happy  knack  of 
forgetting  these  accidents.  They  would  be  quite  satisfied  when 
they  found  the  other  man  (who  happens  to  have  got  through 
it)  produced  as  a  sufficient  answer  to  me." 

Anne  Silvester's  future  was  still  dwelling  on  Sir  Patrick's 
mind.  His  next  inquiry  related  to  the  serious  subject  of  Geof- 
frey's prospect  of  recovery  in  the  time  to  come. 

"  He  will  never  recover,"  said  Mr.  Speedwell.  "  Paralysis  is 
hanging  over  him.  How  long  he  may  live  it  is  impossible  for 
me  to  say.  Much  depends  on  himself  In  his  condition,  any 
new  imprudence,  any  violent  emotion,  may  kill  him  at  a  mo- 
ment's notice." 

"  If  no  accident  happens,"  said  Sir  Patrick,  "  will  he  be  suffi- 
ciently himself  again  to  leave  his  bed  and  go  out  ?" 

"  Certainly." 

"  He  has  an  appointment  that  I  know  of  for  Saturday  next. 
Is  it  likely  that  he  will  be  able  to  keep  it  ?" 

"  Quite  likely." 

Sir  Patrick  said  no  more.  Anne's  face  was  before  him  again 
at  the  memorable  moment  when  he  had  told  her  that  she  was 
Geoflfrey's  wife. 


MAN    AND    WIFB.  443 


FOURTEENTH  SCENE.— PORTLAND  PLACE. 
CHAPTER  THE  FORTY-SIXTH. 

A    SCOTCH    MARRIAGE. 

It  was  Saturday,  the  third  of  October  —  the  day  on  which 
the  assertion  of  Arnold's  marriage  to  Anne  Silvester  was  to  be 
put  to  the  proof 

Toward  two  o'clock  in  the  afternoon  Blanche  and  her  step- 
mother entered  the  drawing-room  of  Lady  Lundie's  town- 
house  in  Portland  Place. 

Since  the  previous  evening  the  weather  had  altered  for  the 
worse.  The  rain,  which  had  set  in  from  an  early  hour  that 
morning,  still  fell.  Viewed  from  the  drawing-room  windows, 
the  desolation  of  Portland  Place  in  the  dead  season  wore  its 
aspect  of  deepest  gloom.  The  dreary  opposite  houses  were  all 
shut  up;  the  black  mud  was  inches  deep  in  the  roadway;  the 
soot,  floating  in  tiny  black  particles,  mixed  with  the  falling 
rain,  and  heightened  the  dirty  obscurity  of  the  rising  mist. 
Foot-passengers  and  vehicles,  succeeding  each  other  at  rare  in- 
tervals, left  great  gaps  of  silence  absolutely  uninterrupted  by 
sound.  Even  the  grinders  of  organs  were  mute  ;  and  the  wan- 
dering dogs  of  the  street  were  too  wet  to  bark.  Looking  back 
from  the  view  out  of  Lady  Lundie's  state  windows  to  the 
view  in  Lady  Lundie's  state-room,  the  melancholy  that  reigned 
without  was  more  than  matched  by  tlie  melancholy  that 
reigned  within.  The  house  had  been  shut  up  for  the  season  : 
it  had  not  been  considered  necessary,  during  its  mistress's 
brief  visit,  to  disturb  the  existing  state  of  things.  Coverings 
of  dim  brown  hue  shrouded  the  furniture.  The  chandeliers 
hung  invisible  in  enormous  bags.  The  silent  clocks  hibernated 
under  extinguishers  dropped  over  them  two  months  since. 
The  tables,  drawn  up  in  corners  —  loaded  with  ornaments  at 
other  times — had  nothing  but  pen,  ink,  and  paper  (suggestive 
of  the  coming  proceedings)  placed  on  them  now.  The  smell 
of  the  house  was  musty ;  the  voice  of  the  house  was  still.  One 
melancholy  maid  haunted  the  bedrooms  up  stairs,  like  a  ghost. 
One  melancholy  man,  appointed  to  admit  the  visitors,  sat  soli- 
tary in  the  lower  regions — the  last  of  the  flunkies,  moldering 
in  an  extinct  servants'  hall.  Not  a  word  passed,  in  the  draw- 
ing-room, between  Lady  Lundie  and  Blanche.  Each  waited 
the  appearance  of  the  persons  concerned  in  the  coming  inquiry, 


444  MAN    AND   WIFE. 

absorbed  in  her  own  thoughts.  Their  situation  at  the  moment 
was  a  solemn  burlesque  of  the  situation  of  two  ladies  who  are 
giving  an  evening  party,  and  who  are  waiting  to  receive  their 
guests.  Did  neither  of  them  see  this  ?  Or,  seeing  it,  did  they 
shrink  from  acknowledging  it  ?  In  similar  positions,  who  does 
not  shrink  ?  The  occasions  are  many  on  which  we  have  ex- 
cellent reason  to  laugh  when  the  tears  are  in  our  eyes  ;  but 
only  children  are  bold  enough  to  follow  the  impulse.  So 
strangely,  in  human  existence,  does  the  mockery  of  what  is 
serious  mingle  with  the  serious  reality  itself,  that  nothing  but 
our  own  self-respect  preserves  our  gravity  at  some  of  the  most 
important  emergencies  in  our  lives.  The  two  ladies  waited 
the  coming  ordeal  together  gravely,  as  became  the  occasion. 
The  silent  maid  flitted  noiseless  up  stairs.  The  silent  man 
waited  motionless  in  the  lower  regions.  Outside,  the  street 
was  a  desert.     Inside,  the  house  was  a  tomb. 

The  church  clock  struck  the  hour.     Two. 

At  the  same  moment  the  first  of  the  persons  concerned  in 
the  investigation  arrived. 

Lady  Lundie  waited  composedly  for  the  opening  of  the  draw- 
ing-room door.  Blanche  started,  and  trembled.  Was  it  Ar- 
nold ?     Was  it  Anne  ? 

The  door  opened,  and  Blanche  drew  a  breath  of  relief  The 
first  arrival  was  only  Lady  Lundie's  solicitor  —  invited  to  at- 
tend the  proceedings  on  her  ladyship's  behalf  He  was  one  of 
that  large  class  of  purely  mechanical  and  perfectly  mediocre 
persons  connected  with  the  practice  of  the  law  who  will  prob- 
ably, in  a  more  advanced  state  of  science,  be  superseded  by 
machinery.  He  made  himself  useful  in  altering  the  arrange- 
ment of  the  tables  and  chairs,  so  as  to  keep  the  contending 
parties  effectually  separated  from  each  other.  He  also  entreat- 
ed Lady  Lundie  to  bear  in  mind  that  he  knew  nothing  of 
Scotch  law,  and  that  he  was  there  in  the  capacity  of  friend 
only.  This  done,  he  sat  down,  and  looked  out  with  silent  in- 
terest at  the  rain — as  if  it  was  an  operation  of  Nature  which 
he  had  never  had  an  opportunity  of  inspecting  before. 

The  next  knock  at  the  door  heralded  the  arrival  of  a  visitor 
of  a  totally  different  order.  The  melancholy  man-servant  an- 
nounced Captain  Newenden. 

Possibly  in  deference  to  the  occasion,  possibly  in  defiance  of 
the  weather,  the  captain  had  taken  another  backward  step  to- 
ward the  days  of  his  youth.  He  was  painted  and  padded,  wig- 
ged  and  dressed,  to  represent  the  abstract  idea  of  a  male  hu- 
man being  of  five-and-twenty  in  robust  health.  There  might 
have  been  a  little  stiffness  in  the  region  of  the  waist,  and  a 
slight  want  of  firmness  in  the  eyelid  and  the  chin.  Otherwise 
there  was  the  fiction  of  five-and-twenty,  founded  in  appearance 


MAN   AND   WIFB.  445 

on  the  fact  of  five-and-thirty — with  the  truth  invisible  behind 
it,  counting  seventy  years  !  Wearing  a  flower  in  his  button- 
hole, and  carrying  a  jaunty  little  cane  in  his  hand — brisk,  rosy, 
smiling,  perfumed — the  captain's  appearance  brightened  the 
dreary  room.  It  was  pleasantly  suggestive  of  a  morning  visit 
from  an  idle  young  man.  He  appeared  to  be  a  little  surprised 
to  find  Blanche  present  on  the  scene  of  approaching  conflict. 
Lady  Lundie  thought  it  due  to  herself  to  explain.  "My  step- 
daughter is  here  in  direct  defiance  of  my  entreaties  and  my  ad- 
vice. Persons  may  present  themselves  whom  it  is,  in  my  opin- 
ion, improper  she  should  see.  Revelations  will  take  place  which 
no  young  woman,  in  her  position,  should  hear.  She  insists  on 
it,  Captain  Newenden — and  I  am  obliged  to  submit." 

The  captain  shrugged  his  shoulders,  and  showed  his  beauti- 
ful teeth. 

Blanche  was  far  too  deeply  interested  in  the  coming  ordeal 
to  care  to  defend  herself:  she  looked  as  if  she  had  not  even 
heard  what  her  stepmother  had  said  of  her.  The  solicitor  re- 
mained absorbed  in  the  interesting  view  of  the  falling  rain. 
Lady  Lundie  asked  after  Mrs.  Glenarm.  The  captain,  in  reply, 
described  his  niece's  anxiety  as  something— something — some- 
thing, in  short,  only  to  be  indicated  by  shaking  his  ambrosial 
curls  and  waving  his  jaunty  cane.  Mrs.  Delamayn  was  stay- 
ing with  her  until  her  uncle  returned  with  the  news.  And 
where  was  Julius  ?  Detained  in  Scotland  by  election  busi- 
ness. And  Lord  and  Lady  Holchester  ?  Lord  and  Lady  Hol- 
chester  knew  nothing  about  it. 

There  was  another  knock  at  the  door.  Blanche's  pale  face 
turned  paler  still.  Was  it  Arnold  ?  Was  it  Anne  ?  After  a 
longer  delay  than  usual,  the  servant  announced  Mr.  Geoffrey 
Delamayn  and  Mr.  Moy. 

Geoflrey,  slowly  entering  first,  saluted  the  two  ladies  in  si- 
lence, and  noticed  no  one  else.  The  London  solicitor,  with- 
drawing himself  for  a  moment  from  the  absorbing  prospect  of 
the  rain,  pointed  to  the  places  reserved  for  the  new-comer  and 
for  the  legal  adviser  whom  he  had  brought  with  him.  Geoflrey 
seated  himself,  without  so  much  as  a  glance  round  the  room. 
Leaning  his  elbows  on  his  knees,  he  vacantly  traced  patterns 
on  the  carpet  with  his  clumsy  oaken  walking-stick.  Stolid  in- 
difierence  expressed  itself  in  his  lowering  brow  and  his  loose- 
ly-hanging mouth.  The  loss  of  the  race,  and  the  circumstances 
accompanying  it,  appeared  to  have  made  him  duller  than  usual 
and  heavier  than  usual — and  that  was  all. 

Captain  Newenden,  approaching  to  speak  to  him,  stopped 
half-way,  hesitated,  thought  better  of  it — and  addressed  him- 
self to  Mr.  Moy. 

Geofirey's  legal  adviser — a  Scotchman  of  the  ruddy,  ready, 


446  MAN    AND    WIFE. 

and  convivial  type — cordially  met  the  advance.  He  announced, 
in  reply  to  the  captain's  inquiry,  that  the  witnesses  (Mrs.  Inch- 
bare  and  Bishopriggs)  were  waiting  below  until  they  were 
wanted,  in  the  housekeeper's  room.  Had  there  been  any  diffi- 
culty in  finding  them  ?  Not  the  least.  Mrs.  Inchbare  was,  as 
a  matter  of  course,  at  her  hotel.  Inquiries  being  set  on  foot 
for  Bishopriggs,  it  appeared  that  he  and  the  landlady  had  come 
to  an  understanding,  and  that  he  had  returned  to  his  old  post  of 
head- waiter  at  the  inn.  The  captain  and  Mr.  Moy  kept  up  the 
conversation  between  them,  thus  begun,  with  unflagging  ease 
and  spirit.  Theirs  were  the  only  voices  heard  in  the  trying  in- 
terval that  elapsed  before  the  next  knock  was  heard  at  the  door. 

At  last  it  came.  There  could  be  no  doubt  now  as  to  the 
persons  who  might  next  be  expected  to  enter  the  room.  Lady 
Lundie  took  her  stepdaughter  firmly  by  the  hand.  She  was 
not  sure  of  what  Blanche's  first  impulse  might  lead  her  to  do. 
For  the  first  time  in  her  life,  Blanche  left  her  hand  willingly  in 
her  stepmother's  grasp. 

The  door  opened,  and  they  came  in. 

Sir  Patrick  Lundie  entered  first,  with  Anne  Silvester  on  his 
arm.     Arnold  Brinkworth  followed  them. 

Both  Sir  Patrick  and  Anne  bowed  in  silence  to  the  persons 
assembled.  Lady  Lundie  ceremoniously  returned  her  brother- 
in-law's  salute,  and  pointedly  abstained  from  noticing  Anne's 
presence  in  the  room.  Blanche  never  looked  up.  Arnold  ad- 
vanced to  her,  with  his  hand  held  out.  Lady  Lundie  rose,  and 
motioned  him  back.  "  Not  yet,  Mr,  Brinkworth  !"  she  said,  in 
her  most  quietly  merciless  manner.  Arnold  stood,  heedless  of 
her,  looking  at  his  wife.  His  wife  lifted  her  eyes  to  his ;  the 
tears  rose  in  them  on  the  instant.  Arnold's  dark  complexion 
turned  ashy  pale  under  the  efibrt  that  it  cost  him  to  command 
himself  "  I  won't  distress  you,"  he  said,  gently — and  turned 
back  again  to  the  table  at  which  Sir  Patrick  and  Anne  were 
seated  together,  apart  from  the  rest.  Sir  Patrick  took  his  hand, 
and  pressed  it  in  silent  approval. 

The  one  person  who  took  no  part,  even  as  spectator,  in  the 
events  that  followed  the  appearance  of  Sir  Patrick  and  his 
companions  in  the  room — was  Geoifrey.  The  only  change  vis- 
ible in  him  was  a  change  in  the  handling  of  his  walking-stick. 
Instead  of  tracing  patterns  on  the  carpet,  it  beat  a  tattoo.  For 
the  rest,  there  he  sat  with  his  heavy  head  on  his  breast  and  his 
brawny  arms  on  his  knees — weary  of  it  by  anticipation  before 
it  had  begun. 

Sir  Patrick  broke  the  silence.  He  addressed  himself  to  his 
sister-in-law. 

"  Lady  Lundie,  are  all  the  persons  present  whom  you  ex- 
pected to  see  here  to-day  ?" 


MAN   AND   WIFE.  447 

The  gathered  venom  in  Lady  Lundie  seized  the  opportunity 
of  planting  its  first  sting. 

"All  whom  I  expected  are  here,"  she  answered.  "And 
more  than  I  expected,"  she  added,  with  a  look  at  Anne. 

The  look  was  not  returned — was  not  even  seen.  From  the 
moment  when  she  had  taken  her  place  by  Sir  Patrick,  Anne's 
eyes  had  rested  on  Blanche.  They  never  moved — they  never 
for  an  instant  lost  their  tender  sadness — when  the  woman  who 
hated  her  spoke.  All  that  was  beautiful  and  true  in  that  no- 
ble nature  seemed  to  find  its  one  sufiicieut  encouragement  in 
Blanche.  As  she  looked  once  more  at  the  sister  of  the  unfor- 
gotten  days  of  old,  its  native  beauty  of  expression  shone  out 
again  in  her  worn  and  weary  face.  Every  man  in  the  room 
(but  GeoflVey)  looked  at  her ;  and  every  man  (but  Geoflfrey) 
felt  for  her. 

Sir  Patrick  addressed  a  second  question  to  his  sister-in-law. 

"  Is  there  any  one  here  to  represent  the  interests  of  Mr.  Geof- 
frey Delamayn  ?"  he  asked. 

Lady  Lundie  referred  Sir  Patrick  to  Geoffrey  himself  With- 
out looking  up,  Geoffrey  motioned  with  his  big  brown  hand  to 
Mr.  Moy,  sitting  by  his  side. 

Mr.  Moy  (holding  the  legal  rank  in  Scotland  which  corre- 
sponds to  the  rank  held  by  solicitors  in  England)  rose  and  bow- 
ed to  Sir  Patrick,  with  the  courtesy  due  to  a  man  eminent  in 
his  time  at  the  Scottish  Bar. 

"  I  represent  Mr.  Delamayn,"  he  said.  "  I  congratulate  my- 
self, Sir  Patrick,  on  having  your  ability  and  experience  to  ap- 
peal to  in  the  conduct  of  the  pending  inquiry." 

Sir  Patrick  returned  the  compliment  as  well  as  the  bow. 

"  It  is  I  who  should  learn  from  you,"  he  answered.  "Zhave 
had  time,  Mr.  Moy,  to  forget  what  I  once  knew." 

Lady  Lundie  looked  from  one  to  the  other  with  unconcealed 
impatience  as  these  formal  courtesies  were  exchanged  between 
the  lawyers.  "Allow  me  to  remind  you,  gentlemen,  of  the  sus- 
pense that  we  are  suffering  at  this  end  of  the  room,"  she  said ; 
"  and  permit  me  to  ask  when  you  propose  to  begin  ?" 

Sir  Patrick  looked  invitingly  at  Mr.  Moy.  Mr.  Moy  looked  in- 
vitingly at  Sir  Patrick.  More  formal  courtesies !  a  polite  contest 
this  time  as  to  which  of  the  two  learned  gentlemen  should  permit 
the  other  to  speak  first !  Mr.  Moy's  modesty  proving  to  be  quite 
immovable,  Sir  Patrick  ended  it  by  opening  the  proceedings. 

"  I  am  here,"  he  said,  "  to  act  on  behalf  of  my  friend,  Mr.  Ar- 
nold Brinkworth.  I  beg  to  present  him  to  you,  Mr.  Moy,  as  the 
husband  of  my  niece — to  whom  he  was  lawfully  married  on  the 
seventh  of  September  last,  at  the  Chui'ch  of  Saint  Margaret,  in 
the  parish  of  Hawley,  Kent.  I  have  a  copy  of  the  marriage  cer- 
tificate here — if  you  wish  to  look  at  it." 


448  MA2f   AND    WIFE. 

Mr.  Moy's  modesty  declined  to  look  at  it. 

"  Quite  needless,  Sir  Patrick  !  I  admit  that  a  marriage  cere- 
mony took  place  on  the  date  named,  between  the  persons  named; 
but  I  contend  that  it  was  not  a  valid  marriage.  I  say,  on  be- 
half of  my  client  here  present  (Mr,  Geoffrey  Delamayn),  that 
Arnold  Brinkworth  was  married  at  a  date  prior  to  the  seventh 
of  September  last — namely,  on  the  fourteenth  of  August  in  this 
year,  and  at  a  place  called  Craig  Fernie,  in  Scotland — to  a  lady 
named  Anne  Silvester,  now  living,  and  present  among  us  (as  I 
understand)  at  this  moment." 

Sir  Patrick  presented  Anne.     "  This  is  the  lady,  Mr.  Moy." 

Mr.  Moy  bowed,  and  made  a  suggestion.  "  To  save  needless 
formalities,  Sir  Patrick,  shall  we  take  the  question  of  identity 
as  established  on  both  sides  ?" 

Sir  Patrick  agreed  with  his  learned  friend.  Lady  Lundie 
opened  and  shut  her  fan  in  undisguised  impatience.  The  Lon- 
don solicitor  was  deeply  interested.  Captain  Newenden,  taking 
out  his  handkerchief,  and  using  it  as  a  screen,  yawned  behind 
it  to  his  heart's  content.     Sir  Patrick  resumed. 

"  You  assert  the  prior  marriage,"  he  said  to  his  colleague, 
"It  rests  with  you  to  begin." 

Mr.  Moy  cast  a  preliminary  look  around  him  at  the  persons 
assembled. 

"  The  object  of  our  meeting  here,"  he  said,  "  is,  if  I  am  not 
mistaken,  of  a  twofold  nature.  In  the  first  place,  it  is  thought 
desirable,  by  a  person  who  has  a  special  interest  in  the  issue  of 
this  inquiry  "  (he  glanced  at  the  captain — the  captain  sudden- 
ly became  attentive),  "to  put  my  client's  assertion,  relating  to 
Mr.  Brinkworth's  marriage,  to  the  proof  In  the  second  place, 
we  are  all  equally  desirous — whatever  difference  of  opinion  may 
otherwise  exist — to  make  this  informal  inquiry  a  means,  if  pos- 
sible, of  avoiding  the  painful  publicity  which  would  result  from 
an  appeal  to  a  Court  of  Law." 

At  those  words  the  gathered  venom  in  Lady  Lundie  planted 
its  second  sting — under  cover  of  a  protest  addressed  to  Mr.  Moy. 

"  I  beg  to  inform  you,  sir,  on  behalf  of  my  stepdaughter," 
she  said, "  that  we  have  nothing  to  dread  from  the  widest  pub- 
licity. We  consent  to  be  present  at,  what  you  call, '  this  infor- 
mal inquiry,'  reserving  our  right  to  carry  the  matter  beyond  the 
four  walls  of  this  room.  I  am  not  referring  now  to  Mr.  Brink- 
worth's  chance  of  clearing  himself  from  an  odious  suspicion 
which  rests  upon  him  and  upon  another  Person  present.  That 
is  an  after-matter.  The  object  immediately  before  us — so  far 
as  a  woman  can  pretend  to  understand  it — is  to  establish  my 
stepdaughter's  right  to  call  Mr.  Brinkworth  to  account  in  the 
character  of  his  wife.  If  the  result,  so  far,  fails  to  satisfy  us  in 
that  particular,  we  shall  not  hesitate  to  appeal  to  a  Court  of 


MAN   AND    WIFE.  449 

Law."  She  leaned  back  in  her  chair,  and  opened  her  fan,  and 
looked  round  her  with  the  air  of  a  woman  who  called  society 
to  witness  that  she  had  done  her  duty. 

An  expression  of  pain  crossed  Blanche's  face  while  her  step- 
mother was  speaking.  Lady  Lundie  took  her  hand  for  the  sec- 
ond time.  Blanche  resolutely  and  pointedly  withdrew  it — Sir 
Patrick  noticing  the  action  with  special  interest.  Before  Mr. 
Moy  could  say  a  word  in  answer,  Arnold  centred  the  general 
attention  on  himself  by  suddenly  interfering  in  the  proceedings. 
Blanche  looked  at  him.  A  bright  flush  of  color  appeared  on 
her  face — and  left  it  again.  Sir  Patrick  noted  the  change  of 
color — and  observed  her  more  attentively  than  ever.  Arnold's 
letter  to  his  wife,  with  time  to  help  it,  had  plainly  shaken  her 
ladyship's  influence  over  Blanche. 

"After  what  Lady  Lundie  has  said,  in  my  wife's  presence," 
Arnold  burst  out,  in  his  straightforward,  boyish  way, "  I  think 
I  ought  to  be  allowed  to  say  a  word  on  my  side.  I  only 
want  to  explain  how  it  was  I  came  to  go  to  Craig  Fernie  at 
all — and  I  challenge  Mr.  Geofirey  Delamayn  to  deny  it,  if  he 
can." 

His  voice  rose  at  the  last  words,  and  his  eyes  brightened  with 
indignation  as  he  looked  at  Geoffrey. 

Mr.  Moy  appealed  to  his  learned  friend. 

"  With  submission.  Sir  Patrick,  to  your  better  judgment,"  he 
said,  "  this  young  gentleman's  proposal  seems  to  be  a  little  out 
of  place  at  the  present  stage  of  the  proceedings." 

"  Pardon  me,"  answered  Sir  Patrick.  "  You  have  yourself 
described  the  proceedings  as  representing  an  informal  inquiry. 
An  informal  proposal — with  submission  to  your  better  judg- 
ment, Mr.  Moy — is  hardly  out  of  place,  under  those  circum- 
stances, is  it  ?" 

Mr.  Moy's  inexhaustible  modesty  gave  way  without  a  strug- 
gle. The  answer  which  he  received  had  the  efiect  of  puzzling 
him  at  the  outset  of  the  investigation.  A  man  of  Sir  Patrick's 
experience  must  have  known  that  Arnold's  mere  assertion  of 
his  own  innocence  could  be  productive  of  nothing  but  useless 
delay  in  the  proceedings.  And  yet  he  sanctioned  that  delay. 
Was  he  privately  on  the  watch  for  any  accidental  circumstance 
which  might  help  him  to  better  a  case  that  he  knew  to  be  a 
bad  one? 

Permitted  to  speak,  Arnold  spoke.  The  unmistakable  ac- 
cent of  truth  was  in  every  word  that  he  uttered.  He  gave  a 
fairly  coherent  account  of  events,  from  the  time  when  Geofii'ey 
had  claimed  his  assistance  at  the  lawn-party  to  the  time  when 
he  found  himself  at  the  door  of  the  inn  at  Craig  Fernie.  There 
Sir  Patrick  interfered,  and  closed  his  lips.  He  asked  leave  to 
appeal  to  Geofirey  to  confirm  him.     Sir  Patrick  amazed  Mr. 


450  MAN   AND   WIFE, 

Moy  by  sanctioning  this  irregularity  also.  Arnold  sternly  ad- 
dressed himself  to  Geoffrey. 

"  Do  you  deny  that  what  I  have  said  is  true  ?"  he  asked. 

Mr.  Moy  did  his  duty  by  his  client.  "  You  are  not  bound 
to  answer,"  he  said,  "  unless  you  wish  it  yourself." 

Geoffrey  slowly  lifted  his  heavy  head,  and  confronted  the 
man  whom  he  had  betrayed. 

"  I  deny  every  word  of  it,"  he  answered — with  a  stolid  defi- 
ance of  tone  and  manner. 

"  Have  we  had  enough  of  assertion  and  counter-assertion, 
Sir  Patrick,  by  this  time  ?"  asked  Mr.  Moy,  with  undiminished 
politeness. 

After  first  forcing  Arnold — with  some  little  difficulty — to 
control  himself.  Sir  Patrick  raised  Mr.  Moy's  astonishment  to 
the  culminating  point.  For  reasons  of  his  own,  he  determined 
to  strengthen  the  favorable  impression  which  Arnold's  state- 
ment had  plainly  produced  on  his  wife  before  the  inquiry  pro- 
ceeded a  step  further. 

"  I  must  throw  myself  on  your  indulgence,  Mr.  Moy,"  he 
said.  "  I  have  not  had  enough  of  assertion  and  counter-asser- 
tion, even  yet." 

Mr.  Moy  leaned  back  in  his  chair  with  a  mixed  expression 
of  bewilderment  and  resignation.  Either  his  colleague's  intel- 
lect was  in  a  failing  state,  or  his  colleague  had  some  purpose 
in  view  which  had  not  openly  asserted  itself  yet.  He  began 
to  suspect  that  the  right  reading  of  the  riddle  was  involved  in 
the  latter  of  those  two  alternatives.  Instead  of  entering  any 
fresh  protest,  he  wisely  waited  and  watched. 

Sir  Patrick  went  on  unblushingly  from  one  irregularity  to 
another. 

"  I  request  Mr.  Moy's  permission  to  revert  to  the  alleged 
marriage,  on  the  fourteenth  of  August,  at  Craig  Fernie,"  he  said. 
"  Arnold  Brinkworth !  answer  for  yourself,  in  the  presence  of 
the  persons  here  assembled.  In  all  that  you  said,  and  all  that 
you  did,  while  you  were  at  the  inn,  were  you  not  solely  influ- 
enced by  the  wish  to  make  Miss  Silvester's  position  as  little 
painful  to  her  as  possible,  and  by  anxiety  to  carry  out  the  in- 
structions given  to  you  by  Mr.  Geoffrey  Delamayn  ?  Is  that 
the  whole  truth  ?" 

"  That  is  the  whole  truth.  Sir  Patrick." 

"  On  the  day  when  you  went  to  Craig  Fernie,  had  you  not, 
a  few  hours  previously,  applied  for  my  permission  to  marry  my 
niece  ?" 

"  I  applied  for  your  permission,  Sir  Patrick,  and  you  gave 
it  me." 

"  From  the  moment  when  you  entered  the  inn  to  the  mo- 
ment when  you  left  it,  were  you  absolutely  innocent  of  the 
slightest  intention  to  marry  Miss  Silvester  ?" 


MAN   AND   WIFE.  451 

"  No  such  thing  as  the  thought  of  marrying  Miss  Silvester 
ever  entered  my  head." 

"And  this  you  say,  on  your  word  of  honor  as  a  gentleman  ?" 

"On  my  word  of  honor  as  a  gentleman." 

Sir  Patrick  turned  to  Anne. 

"  Was  it  a  matter  of  necessity,  Miss  Silvester,  that  you  should 
appear  in  the  assumed  character  of  a  married  woman — on  the 
fourteenth  of  August  last,  at  the  Craig  Fernie  inn  ?" 

Anne  looked  away  from  Blanche  for  the  first  time.  She  re- 
plied to  Sir  Patrick  quietly,  readily,  firmly — Blanche  looking 
at  her,  and  listening  to  her  with  eager  interest. 

"  I  went  to  the  inn  alone.  Sir  Patrick.  The  landlady  re- 
fused, in  the  plainest  terms,  to  let  me  stay  there  unless  she  was 
first  satisfied  that  I  was  a  married  woman." 

"  Which  of  the  two  gentlemen  did  you  expect  to  join  you 
at  the  inn  —  Mr.  Arnold  Brinkworth,  or  Mr.  Geoffrey  Dela- 
mayn  ?" 

"  Mr.  Geoffrey  Delamayn." 

"  When  Mr.  Arnold  Brinkworth  came  in  his  place,  and  said 
what  was  necessary  to  satisfy  the  scruples  of  the  landlady,  you 
understood  that  he  was  acting  in  your  interests,  from  motives 
of  kindness  only,  and  under  the  instructions  of  Mr.  Geoffrey 
Delamayn  ?" 

"  I  understood  that  •  and  I  objected  as  strongly  as  I  could 
to  Mr.  Brinkworth  placing  himself  in  a  false  position  on  my 
account." 

"  Did  your  objection  proceed  from  any  knowledge  of  the 
Scottish  law  of  marriage,  and  of  the  position  in  which  the  pe- 
culiarities of  that  law  might  place  Mr.  Brinkworth  ?" 

"  I  had  no  knowledge  of  the  Scottish  law.  I  had  a  vague 
dislike  and  dread  of  the  deception  which  Mi-.  Brinkworth  was 
practicing  on  the  people  of  the  inn.  And  I  feared  that  it  might 
lead  to  some  possible  misinterpretation  of  me  on  the  part  of  a 
person  whom  I  dearly  loved." 

"That  person  being  my  niece  ?" 

"  Yes." 

"  You  appealed  to  Mr.  Brinkworth  (knowing  of  his  attach- 
ment to  my  niece),  in  her  name,  and  for  her  sake,  to  leave  you 
to  shift  for  yourself?" 

"  I  did." 

"As  a  gentleman  who  had  given  his  promise  to  help  and 
protect  a  lady,  in  the  absence  of  the  person  whom  she  had  de- 
pended on  to  join  her,  he  refused  to  leave  you  to  shift  for  your- 
self?" 

"  Unhappily,  he  refused  on  that  account." 

"  From  first  to  last  you  were  absolutely  innocent  of  the 
slightest  intention  to  marry  Mr.  Brinkworth  ?" 


452  MAN    AND    WIFE. 

"  I  answer,  Sir  Patrick,  as  Mr.  Brinkworth  has  answered. 
No  such  thing  as  the  thought  of  marrying  him  ever  entered 
my  head." 

"  And  this  you  say,  on  your  oath  as  a  Christian  woman  ?" 

"  On  my  oath  as  a  Christian  woman." 

Sir  Patrick  looked  round  at  Blanche.  Her  face  was  hidden 
in  her  hands.  Her  stepmother  was  vainly  appealing  to  her  to 
compose  herself 

In  the  moment  of  silence  that  followed,  Mr.  Moy  interfered 
in  the  interests  of  his  client. 

"  I  waive  my  claim.  Sir  Patrick,  to  put  any  questions  on  my 
side.  I  merely  desire  to  remind  you,  and  to  remind  the  com- 
pany present,  that  all  that  we  have  just  heard  is  mere  assertion 
— on  the  part  of  two  persons  strongly  interested  in  extricating 
themselves  from  a  position  which  fatally  compromises  them 
both.  The  marriage  which  they  deny  I  am  now  waiting  to 
prove — not  by  assertion,  on  my  side,  but  by  appeal  to  compe- 
tent witnesses." 

After  a  brief  consultation  with  her  own  solicitor.  Lady  Lun- 
die  followed  Mr.  Moy,  in  stronger  language  still. 

"  I  wish  you  to  understand.  Sir  Patrick,  before  you  proceed 
any  further,  that  I  shall  remove  my  stepdaughter  from  the 
room  if  any  more  attempts  are  made  to  harrow  her  feelings 
and  mislead  her  judgment.  I  want  words  to  express  my  sense 
of  this  most  cruel  and  unfair  way  of  conducting  the  inquiry." 

The  London  lawyer  followed,  stating  his  professional  approv- 
al of  his  client's  view.  "As  her  ladyship's  legal  adviser,"  he 
said,  "  I  support  the  protest  which  her  ladyship  has  just  made." 

Even  Captain  Newenden  agreed  in  the  general  disapproval 
of  Sir  Patrick's  conduct.  "  Hear,  hear  !"  said  the  captain,  when 
the  lawyer  had  spoken.  "  Quite  right.  I  must  say,  quite 
right." 

Apparently  impenetrable  to  all  due  sense  of  his  position,  Sir 
Patrick  addressed  himself  to  Mr.  Moy,  as  if  nothing  had  hap- 
pened. 

"  Do  you  wish  to  produce  your  witnesses  at  once  ?"  he  ask- 
ed. "  I  have  not  the  least  objection  to  meet  your  views — on 
the  understanding  that  I  am  permitted  to  return  to  the  pro- 
ceedings as  interrupted  at  this  point." 

Mr.  Moy  considered.  The  adversary  (there  could  be  no 
doubt  of  it  by  this  time)  had  something  in  reserve — and  the 
adversary  had  not  yet  shown  his  hand.  It  was  more  immedi- 
ately important  to  lead  him  into  doing  this  than  to  insist  on 
rights  and  privileges  of  the  purely  formal  sort.  Nothing 
could  shake  the  strength  of  the  position  which  Mr.  Moy  occu- 
pied. The  longer  Sir  Patrick's  irregularities  delayed  the  pro- 
ceedings, the  more  irresistibly  the  plain  facts  of  the  case  would 


MAN    AND    WIFE.  453 

assert  themselves — with  all  the  force  of  contrast — out  of  the 
mouths  of  the  witnesses  wlio  were  in  attendance  down  stairs. 
He  determined  to  wait. 

"  Reserving  my  right  of  objection,  Sir  Patrick,"  he  answer- 
ed, "  I  beg  you  to  go  on." 

To  the  surprise  of  every  body,  Sir  Patrick  addressed  him- 
self directly  to  Blanche — quoting  the  language  in  which  Lady 
Lundie  bad  spoken  to  him,  with  perfect  composure  of  tone  and 
manner. 

"You  know  me  well  enough,  my  dear,"  he  said,  "to  be  as- 
sured that  lam  incapable  of  willingly  liarrowing  your  feelings 
or  misleading  your  judgment.  I  have  a  question  to  ask  you, 
which  you  can  answer  or  not,  entirely  as  you  please." 

Before  he  could  put  the  question  there  was  a  momentary 
contest  between  Lady  Lundie  and  her  legal  adviser.  Silen- 
cing her  ladyship  (not  without  difficulty),  the  London  lawyer 
interposed.  He  also  begged  leave  to  reserve  the  right  of  ob- 
jection, so  far  as  his  client  was  concerned. 

Sir  Patrick  assented  by  a  sign,  and  proceeded  to  put  his 
question  to  Blanche. 

"  You  have  heard  wiiat  Arnold  Brinkworth  has  said,  and 
what  Miss  Silvester  has  said,"  he  resumed.  "  The  husband 
who  loves  you,  and  the  sisterly  friend  who  loves  you,  have  each 
made  a  solemn  declaration.  Recall  your  past  experience  of 
both  of  them  ;  remember  what  they  have  just  said;  and  now 
tell  me — do  you  believe  they  have  spoken  falsely  ?" 

Blanche  answered  on  the  instant. 

"  I  believe,  uncle,  they  have  spoken  the  truth  !" 

Both  the  lawyers  registered  their  objections.  Lady  Lundie 
made  another  attempt  to  speak,  and  was  stopped  once  more — 
this  time  by  Mr.  Moy  as  well  as  by  her  own  adviser.  Sir  Pat- 
rick went  on. 

"Do  you  feel  any  doubt  as  to  the  entire  propriety  of  your 
husband's  conduct  and  your  friend's  conduct,  now  you  have 
seen  them  and  heard  them,  face  to  face  ?" 

Blanche  answered  again,  with  the  same  absence  of  reserve. 

"  I  ask  them  to  forgive  me,"  she  said.  "  I  believe  I  have 
done  them  both  a  gi'eat  wrong." 

She  looked  at  her  husband  first — then  at  Anne.  Arnold 
attempted  to  leave  his  chair.  Sir  Patrick  firmly  restrained 
him.  "  Wait !"  he  whispered.  "  You  don't  know  what  is  com- 
ing." Having  said  that,  he  turned  toward  Anne.  Blanche's 
look  had  gone  to  the  heart  of  the  faithful  Avoman  who  loved 
her.  Anne's  face  was  turned  away  —  the  tears  were  forcing 
themselves  through  the  worn  weak  hands  that  tried  vainly  to 
hide  them. 

The  formal  objections  of  the  lawyers  were  registered  once 


454  MAN   AND   WIFE. 

more.  Sir  Patrick  addressed  himself  to  his  niece  for  the  last 
time, 

"  You  believe  what  Arnold  Brinkworth  has  said ;  you  believe 
what  Miss  Silvester  has  said.  You  know  that  not  even  the 
thought  of  marriage  was  in  the  mind  of  either  of  them  at  the 
inn.  You  know — whatever  else  may  happen  in  the  future — 
that  there  is  not  the  most  remote  possibility  of  either  of  them 
consenting  to  acknowledge  that  they  ever  have  been,  or  ever 
can  be,  Man  and  Wife.  Is  that  enough  for  you  ?  Are  you 
willing,  before  this  inquiry  proceeds  any  further,  to  take  your 
husband's  hand ;  to  return  to  your  husband's  protection ;  and 
to  leave  the  rest  to  me — satisfied  with  my  assurance  that,  on 
the  facts  as  they  happened,  not  even  the  Scotch  Law  can  prove 
the  monstrous  assertion  of  the  marriage  at  Craig  Fernie  to  be 
true  ?" 

Lady  Lundie  rose.  Both  the  lawyers  rose.  Arnold  sat  lost 
in  astonishment.  Geoflfrey  himself — brutishly  careless  thus  far 
of  all  that  had  passed — lifted  his  head  with  a  sudden  start.  In 
the  midst  of  the  profound  impression  thus  produced,  Blanche, 
on  whose  decision  the  whole  future  course  of  the  inquiry  now 
turned,  answered  in  these  words : 

"I  hope  you  will  not  think  me  ungrateful,  uncle.  I  am  sure 
that  Arnold  has  not  knowingly  done  me  any  wrong.  But  I 
can't  go  back  to  him  until  I  am  first  certain  that  I  am  his  wife." 

Lady  Lundie  embraced  her  stepdaughter,  with  a  sudden 
outburst  of  affection.  "  My  dear  child  !"  exclaimed  her  lady- 
ship, fervently.     "  Well  done,  my  own  dear  child  !" 

Sir  Patrick's  head  dropped  on  his  breast.  "  Oh,  Blanche ! 
Blanche  !"  Arnold  heard  him  whisper  to  himself;  "  if  you  only 
knew  what  you  are  forcing  me  to  !" 

Mr.  Moy  put  in  his  word,  on  Blanche's  side  of  the  question. 

"  I  must  most  respectfully  express  my  approval  also  of  the 
course  which  the  young  lady  has  taken,"  he  said.  "A  more 
dangerous  compromise  than  the  compromise  which  we  have 
just  heard  suggested  it  is  difticult  to  imagine.  With  all  defer- 
ence to  Sir  Patrick  Lundie,  his  opinion  of  the  impossibility  of 
proving  the  marriage  at  Craig  Fernie  remains  to  be  confirmed 
as  the  right  one.  My  own  professional  opmion  is  opposed  to 
it.  The  opinion  of  another  Scottish  lawyer  (in  Glasgow)  is,  to 
my  certain  knowledge,  opposed  to  it.  If  the  young  lady  had 
not  acted  with  a  wisdom  and  courage  which  do  her  honor,  she 
might  have  lived  to  see  the  day  when  her  reputation  would 
have  been  destroyed,  and  her  children  declared  illegitimate. 
Who  is  to  say  that  circumstances  may  not  happen  in  the  future 
which  may  force  Mr.  Brinkworth  or  Miss  Silvester — one  or  the 
other — to  assert  the  very  marriage  which  they  repudiate  now  ? 
Who  is  to  say  that  interested  relatives  (property  being  con- 


MAN    AND    WIFE.  455 

oerned  here)  may  not,  in  the  lapse  of  years,  discover  motives 
of  tlieir  own  for  questioning  the  asserted  marriage  in  Kent? 
I  acknowledge  that  I  envy  the  immense  self-confidence  which 
emboldens  Sir  Patrick  to  venture,  what  he  is  willing  to  venture 
upon  his  own  individual  opinion  on  an  undecided  point  of  law." 

He  sat  down  amidst  a  murmur  of  approval,  and  cast  a  slyly- 
expectant  look  at  his  defeated  adversary.  "  If  that  doesn't  ir- 
ritate him  into  shoAving  his  hand,"  thought  Mr.  Moy,  "  nothing 
will!" 

Sir  Patrick  slowly  raised  his  head.  There  was  no  irritation 
— there  was  only  distress  in  his  face — when  he  spoke  next. 

"  I  don't  propose,  Mr.  Moy,  to  argue  the  point  with  you,"  he 
said,  gently.  "I  can  understand  that  my  conduct  must  nec- 
essarily appear  strange  and  even  blameworthy,  not  in  your 
eyes  only,  but  in  the  eyes  of  others.  My  young  friend  here 
will  tell  you"  (he  looked  toward  Arnold)  "that  the  view  which 
you  express  as  to  the  future  peril  involved  in  this  case  was 
once  the  view  in  my  mind  too,  and  that  in  what  I  have  done 
thus  far  I  have  acted  in  direct  contradiction  to  advice  which  I 
myself  gave  at  no  very  distant  period.  Excuse  me,  if  you 
please,  from  entering  (for  the  present  at  least)  into  the  motive 
which  has  influenced  me  from  the  time  when  I  entered  this 
room.  My  position  is  one  of  unexampled  responsibility  and 
of  indescribable  distress.  May  I  appeal  to  that  statement  to 
stand  as  my  excuse,  if  I  plead  for  a  last  extension  of  indul- 
gence toward  the  last  irregularity  of  which  I  shall  be  guilty, 
in  connection  with  these  proceedings  ?" 

Lady  Lundie  alone  resisted  the  unaffected  and  touching 
dignity  with  which  those  words  were  spoken. 

"  We  have  had  enough  of  irregularity,"  she  said,  sternly. 
"  I,  for  one,  object  to  more." 

Sir  Patrick  waited  patiently  for  Mr.  Moy's  reply.  The 
Scotch  lawyer  and  the  English  lawyer  looked  at  each  other — 
and  understood  each  other.     Mr.  Moy  answered  for  both. 

"  We  don't  presume  to  restrain  you.  Sir  Patrick,  by  other 
limits  than  those  which,  as  a  gentleman,  you  impose  on  your- 
self. Subject,"  added  the  cautious  Scotchman,  "  to  the  right 
of  objection  which  we  have  already  reserved." 

"  Do  you  object  to  my  speaking  to  your  client  ?"  asked  Sir 
Patrick. 

"  To  Mr.  Geoff'rey  Delamayn  ?" 

"  Yes." 

All  eyes  turned  on  Geoff'rey.  He  was  sitting  half  asleep,  as 
it  seemed — wath  his  heavy  hands  hanging  listlessly  over  his 
knees,  and  his  chin  resting  on  the  hooked  handle  of  his  stick. 

Looking  toward  Anne,  when  Sir  Patrick  pronounced  Geof- 
frey's name,  Mr.  Moy  saw  a  change  in  her.     She  withdrew  her 


456  MAN    4XD    WIFE. 

hands  from  her  face,  and  turned  suddenly  toward  her  legal 
adviser.  Was  she  in  the  secret  of  the  carefully  concealed  ob- 
ject at  which  his  opponent  had  been  aiming  from  the  first? 
Mr.  Moy  decided  to  put  that  doubt  to  the  test.  He  invited 
Sir  Patrick,  by  a  gesture,  to  proceed.  Sir  Patrick  addressed 
himself  to  Geoffrey. 

"You  are  seriously  intei*ested  in  this  inquiry,"  he  said ;  "  and 
you  have  taken  no  part  in  it  yet.  Take  a  part  in  it  now.  Look 
at  this  lady." 

Geoffrey  never  moved. 

"I've  seen  enough  of  her  already,"  he  said,  brutally. 

"You  may  well  be  ashamed  to  look  at  her,"  said  Sir  Pat- 
rick, quietly.  "  But  you  might  have  acknowledged  it  in  fitter 
words.  Carry  your  memory  back  to  the  fourteenth  of  Au- 
gust. Do  you  deny  that  you  promised  to  marry  Miss  Silves- 
ter privately  at  the  Craig  Fernie  inn  ?" 

"  I  object  to  that  question,"  said  Mr.  Moy.  "  My  client  is 
under  no  sort  of  obligation  to  answer  it." 

Geoffrey's  rising  temper — ready  to  resent  any  thing  —  re- 
sented his  adviser's  interference.  "I  shall  answer  if  I  like," 
he  retorted,  insolently.  He  looked  up  for  a  moment  at  Sir 
Patrick,  without  moving  his  chin  from  the  hook  of  his  stick. 
Then  he  looked  down  again.     "  I  do  deny  it,"  he  said. 

"  You  deny  that  you  have  promised  to  marry  Miss  Sil- 
vester ?" 

"  Yes." 

"  I  asked  you  just  now  to  look  at  her — " 

"And  I  told  you  I  had  seen  enough  of  her  already." 

"  Look  at  me.  In  my  presence,  and  in  the  presence  of  the 
other  persons  here,  do  you  deny  that  you  owe  this  lady,  by 
your  own  solemn  engagement,  the  reparation  of  marriage?" 

He  suddenly  lifted  his  head.  His  eyes,  after  resting  for  an 
instant  only  on  Sir  Patrick,  turned,  little  by  little,  and,  bright- 
ening slowly,  fixed  themselves  with  a  hideous,  tigerish  glare 
on  Anne's  face.     "I  know  what  I  owe  her,"  he  said. 

The  devouring  hatred  of  his  look  was  matched  by  the  fero- 
cious vindictiveness  of  his  tone,  as  he  spoke  those  words.  It 
was  horrible  to  see  him;  it  was  horrible  to  hear  him.  Mr. 
Moy  said  to  him,  in  a  whisper,  "  Control  yourself,  or  I  will 
throw  up  your  case." 

Without  answering — without  even  listening — he  lifted  one 
of  his  hands,  and  looked  at  it  vacantly.  He  whispered  some- 
thing to  himself;  and  counted  out  what  he  was  whispering 
slow'ly  ;  in  divisions  of  his  own,  on  three  of  his  fingers  in  suc- 
cession. He  fixed  his  eyes  again  on  Anne,  with  the  same  de- 
vouring hatred  in  their  look,  and  spoke  (this  time  dii-ectly  ad- 
dressing himself  to  her)  with  the  same  ferocious  vindictiveness 


MAN    AND    WIFE.  457 

in  his  tone.  "  But  for  you,  I  should  be  married  to  Mrs.  Glen- 
arm.  But  for  you,  I  should  be  friends  with  my  father.  But 
for  you,  I  should  have  won  the  race.  I  know  what  I  owe  you." 
His  loosely  hanging  hands  stealthily  clenched  themselves.  His 
head  sank  again  on  his  broad  breast.     He  said  no  more. 

Not  a  soul  moved — not  a  word  was  spoken.  The  same  com- 
mon horror  held  them  all  speechless.  Anne's  eyes  turned  once 
more  on  Blanche.  Anne's  courage  upheld  her,  even  at  that 
moment. 

Sir  Patrick  rose.  The  strong  emotion  which  he  had  sup- 
pressed thus  far  showed  itself  plainly  in  his  face — uttered  it- 
self plainly  in  his  voice. 

"  Come  into  the  next  room,"  he  said  to  Anne.  "  I  must 
speak  to  you  instantly  !" 

Without  noticing  the  astonishment  that  he  caused  ;  without 
paying  the  smallest  attention  to  the  remonstrances  addressed  to 
him  by  his  sister-in-law  and  by  the  Scotch  lawyer,  he  took  Anne 
by  the  arm — opened  the  folding-doors  at  one  end  of  the  room — 
entered  the  room  beyond  with  her — and  closed  the  doors  again. 

Lady  Lundie  appealed  to  her  legal  adviser,  Blanche  rose — 
advanced  a  few  steps — and  stood  in  breathless  suspense,  look- 
ing at  the  folding-doors,  Arnold  advanced  a  step,  to  speak  to 
his  wife.     The  captain  approached  Mr.  Moy. 

"  What  does  this  mean  ?"  he  asked. 

Mr.  Moy  answered,  in  strong  agitation  on  his  side. 

"  It  means  that  I  have  not  been  properly  instructed.  Sir 
Patrick  Lundie  has  some  evidence  in  his  possession  that  seri- 
ously compromises  Mr.  Delamayn's  case.  He  has  shrunk  from 
producing  it  hitherto — he  finds  himself  forced  to  produce  it 
now.  How  is  it,"  asked  the  lawyer,  turning  sternly  on  his  cli- 
ent, "that  you  have  left  me  in  the  dark  ?" 

"  I  know  nothing  about  it,"  answered  Geoffrey,  without  lift- 
ing his  head. 

Lady  Lundie  signed  to  Blanche  to  stand  aside,  and  advanced 
toward  the  folding-doors.     Mr.  Moy  stopped  her. 

"I  advise  your  ladyship  to  be  patient.  Interference  is  use- 
less there." 

"Am  I  not  to  interfere,  sir,  in  my  own  house  ?" 

"  Unless  I  am  entirely  mistaken,  madam,  the  end  of  the  pro- 
ceedings in  your  house  is  at  hand.  You  will  damage  your 
own  interests  by  interfering.  Let  us  know  what  we  are  about 
at  last.     Let  the  end  come." 

Lady  Lundie  yielded,  and  returned  to  her  place.  They  all 
waited  in  silence  for  the  opening  of  the  doors. 

Sir  Patrick  Lundie  and  Anne  Silvester  were  alone  in  the 
room. 


458  MAN    AND    WIFE. 

He  took  from  the  breast-pocket  of  his  coat  the  sheet  of  note- 
paper  which  contained  Anne's  letter,  and  Geoffrey's  reply. 
His  hand  trembled  as  he  held  it ;  his  voice  faltered  as  he  spoke. 

"  I  have  done  all  that  can  be  done,"  he  said.  "  I  have  left 
nothing  untried,  to  prevent  the  necessity  of  producing  this." 

"  I  feel  your  kindness  gratefully,  Sir  Patrick,  You  must 
produce  it  now." 

The  woman's  calmness  presented  a  strange  and  touching 
contrast  to  the  man's  emotion.  There  was  no  shrinking  in  her 
face,  there  was  no  unsteadiness  in  her  voice  as  she  answered 
him.  He  took  her  hand.  Twice  he  attempted  to  speak  ;  and 
twice  his  own  agitation  overpowered  him.  He  offered  the  let- 
ter to  her  in  silence. 

In  silence  on  her  side,  she  put  the  letter  away  from  her,  won- 
dering what  he  meant. 

"  Take  it  back,"  he  said.  "  I  can't  produce  it !  I  daren't 
px'oduce  it !  After  what  my  own  eyes  have  seen,  after  what 
my  own  ears  have  heard,  in  the  next  room — as  God  is  my  wit- 
ness, I  daren't  ask  you  to  declare  yourself  Geoffrey  Delamayn's 
wife !" 

She  answered  him  in  one  word. 

"  Blanche  !" 

He  shook  his  head  impatiently.  "Not  even  in  Blanche's 
interests  !  Not  even  for  Blanche's  sake  !  If  there  is  any  risk, 
it  is  a  risk  I  am  ready  to  run.  I  hold  to  my  own  opinion.  I 
believe  my  own  view  to  be  right.  Let  it  come  to  an  appeal  to 
the  law  !     I  will  fight  the  case,  and  win  it." 

"Are  you  sure  of  winning  it.  Sir  Patrick?" 

Instead  of  replying,  he  pressed  the  letter  on  her.  "  Destroy 
it,"  he  whispered.     "And  rely  on  my  silence." 

She  took  the  letter  from  him. 

"  Destroy  it,"  he  repeated.  "  They  may  open  the  doors. 
They  may  come  in  at  any  moment,  and  see  it  in  your  hand." 

"  I  have  something  to  ask  you.  Sir  Patrick,  before  I  destroy 
it.  Blanche  refuses  to  go  back  to  her  husband,  unless  she  re- 
turns with  the  certain  assurance  of  being  really  his  wife.  If  I 
produce  this  letter,  she  may  go  back  to  him  to-day.  If  I  de- 
clare myself  Geoffrey  Delamayn's  wife,  I  clear  Arnold  Brink- 
worth,  at  once  and  forever,  of  all  suspicion  of  being  married  to 
me.  Can  you  as  certainly  and  effectually  clear  him  in  any 
other  way  ?  Answer  me  that,  as  a  man  of  honor  speaking  to  a 
woman  who  implicitly  trusts  him  !" 

She  looked  him  full  in  the  face.  His  eyes  dropped  before 
hers — he  made  no  reply. 

"  I  am  answered,"  she  said. 

With  those  words,  she  passed  him,  and  laid  her  hand  on  the 
door. 


MAN    AND    WIFE.  461 

He  checked  her.  The  tears  rose  in  his  eyes  as  he  drew  her 
gently  back  into  the  room. 

"Why  should  we  wait?"  she  asked. 

"  Wait,"  he  answered,  "  as  a  favor  to  me." 

She  seated  herself  calmly  in  the  nearest  chair,  and  rested  her 
head  on  her  hand,  thinking. 

He  bent  over  her,  and  roused  her,  impatiently,  almost  angri- 
ly. The  steady  resolution  in  her  face  was  terrible  to  him,  when 
he  thought  of  the  man  in  the  next  room. 

"  Take  time  to  consider,"  he  pleaded.  "  Don't  be  led  away 
by  your  own  impulse.  Don't  act  under  a  false  excitement. 
Nothing  binds  you  to  this  dreadful  sacrifice  of  yourself" 

"Excitement !  Sacrifice  !"  She  smiled  sadly  as  she  repeated 
the  words.  "  Do  you  know.  Sir  Patrick,  what  I  was  thinking 
of  a  moment  since  ?  Only  of  old  times,  when  I  was  a  little 
girl.  I  saw  the  sad  side  of  life  sooner  than  most  children  see 
it.  My  mother  was  cruelly  deserted.  The  hard  marriage 
laws  of  this  country  were  harder  on  her  than  on  me.  She  died 
broken-hearted.  But  one  friend  comforted  her  at  the  last  mo- 
ment, and  promised  to  be  a  mother  to  her  child.  I  can't  re- 
member one  unhappy  day  in  all  the  after-time  when  I  lived 
with  that  faithful  woman  and  her  little  daughter — till  the  day 
that  parted  us.  She  went  away  with  her  husband  ;  and  I  and 
the  little  daughter  were  left  behind.  She  said  her  last  words 
to  me.  Her  heart  was  sinking  under  the  dread  of  coming 
death.  'I  promised  your  mother  that  you  should  be  like  my 
own  child  to  me,  and  it  quieted  her  mind.  Quiet  mi/  mind, 
Anne,  before  I  go.  Whatever  happens  in  years  to  come — 
promise  me  to  be  always  what  you  are  now,  a  sister  to  Blanche.' 
Where  is  the  false  excitement.  Sir  Patrick,  in  old  remembrances 
like  these  ?  And  how  can  there  be  a  sacrifice  in  any  thing  that 
I  do  for  Blanche  ?" 

She  rose,  and  oflfered  him  her  hand.  Sir  Patrick  lifted  it  to 
his  lips  in  silence. 

"  Come  !"  she  said.  "  For  both  our  sakes,  let  us  not  prolong 
this."  ^ 

He  turned  aside  his  head.  It  was  no  moment  to  let  her  see 
that  she  had  completely  unmanned  him.  She  waited  for  him, 
with  her  hand  on  the  lock.  He  rallied  his  courage — he  forced 
himself  to  face  the  horror  of  the  situation  cajmly.  She  opened 
the  door,  and  led  the  way  back  into  the  other  room. 

Not  a  word  was  spoken  by  any  of  the  persons  present,  as  the 
two  returned  to  their  places.  The  noise  of  a  carriage  passing 
in  the  street  was  painfully  audible.  The  chance  banging  of  a 
door  in  the  lower  regions  of  the  house  made  every  one  start 

Anne's  sweet  voice  broke  the  dreary  silence. 


462  MAN    AND    WIPE. 

"  Must  I  speak  for  myself,  Sir  Patrick  ?  Or  will  you  (I  ask 
it  as  a  last  and  greatest  favor)  speak  for  me  ?" 

"You  insist  on  appealing  to  the  letter  in  your  hand?" 

"I  am  resolved  to  appeal  to  it." 

"  Will  nothing  induce  you  to  defer  the  close  of  this  inquiry 
— so  far  as  you  are  concerned — for  four-and-twenty  hours'?" 

"Either  you  or  I,  Sir  Patrick,  must  say  what  is  to  be  said, 
and  do  what  is  to  be  done,  before  we  leave  this  room," 

"Give  me  the  letter." 

She  gave  it  to  him.  Mr.  Moy  whispered  to  his  client,  "  Do 
you  know  what  that  is  ?"  Geoffrey  shook  his  head.  "  Do  you 
really  remember  nothing  about  it  ?"  Geoffrey  answered  in  one 
surly  word, "  Nothing  !" 

Sir  Patrick  addressed  himself  to  the  assembled  company. 

"  I  have  to  ask  your  pardon,"  he  said,  "  for  abruptly  leaving 
the  room,  and  for  obliging  Miss  Silvester  to  leave  it  with  me. 
Every  body  present,  except  that  man  "  (he  pointed  to  Geof- 
frey), "  will,  I  believe,  understand  and  forgive  me,  now  that  I 
am  forced  to  make  my  conduct  the  subject  of  the  plainest  and 
the  fullest  explanation.  I  shall  address  that  explanation,  for 
reasons  which  will  presently  appear,  to  my  niece." 

Blanche  started.     "  To  me  !"  she  exclaimed. 

"To  you,"  Sir  Patrick  answered, 

Blanche  turned  toward  Arnold,  daunted  by  a  vague  sense  of 
something  serious  to  come.  The  letter  that  she  had  received 
from  her  husband  on  her  departure  from  Ham  Farm  had  nee- 
essarily  alluded  to  relations  between  Geoffrey  and  Anne,  of 
which  Blanche  had  been  previously  ignorant.  Was  any  refer- 
ence coming  to  those  relations?  Was  there  something  yet  to  be 
disclosed  Avhich  Arnold's  letter  had  not  prepared  her  to  hear  ? 

Sir  Patrick  resumed. 

"A  short  time  since,"  he  said  to  Blanche,"  I  proposed  to  you 
to  return  to  your  husband's  protection,  and  to  leave  the  ter- 
mination of  this  matter  in  my  hands.  You  have  refused  to  go 
back  to  him  until  you  are  first  certainly  assured  that  you  are 
his  wife.  Thanks  to  a  sacrifice  to  your  interests  and  your  hap- 
piness, on  Miss  Silvester's  part — which  I  tell  you  frankly  I 
have  done  my  utmost  to  prevent — I  am  in  a  position  to  prove 
positively  that  Arnold  Brink  worth  was  a  single  man  when  he 
married  you  from  my  house  in  Kent." 

Mr.  Moy's  experience  forewarned  him  of  what  was  coming. 
He  pointed  to  the  letter  in  Sir  Patrick's  hand. 

"  Do  you  claim  on  a  promise  of  marriage  ?"  he  asked. 

Sir  Patrick  rejoined  by  putting  a  question  on  his  side. 

"Do  you  remember  the  famous  decision  at  Doctors'  Com- 
mons, which  established  the  marriage  of  Captain  Dalrymple 
and  Miss  Gordon  ?" 


MAN    AND    WIFE.  463 

Mr.  Moy  was  answered.  "I  understand  you,  Sir  Patrick," 
he  said.  After  a  moment's  pause,  he  addressed  his  next  words 
to  Anne.  "And,  from  the  bottom  of  my  heart,  madam,  I  re- 
spect youy 

It  was  said  witli  a  fervent  sincerity  of  tone  Avhich  wrought 
the  interest  of  the  other  persons,  who  were  still  waiting  for  en- 
lightenment, to  tlie  highest  pitcli.  Lady  Lundie  and  Captain 
Newenden  whispered  to  each  other  anxiously.  Arnold  turned 
pale.     Blanche  burst  into  tears. 

Sir  Patrick  turned  once  more  to  his  niece. 

"Some  little  time  since,"  he  said,  "I  had  occasion  to  speak 
to  you  of  the  scandalous  uncertainty  of  the  marriage  laws  of 
Scotland.  But  for  that  uncertainty  (entirely  without  parallel 
in  any  other  civilized  country  in  Europe),  Arnold  Brinkworth 
would  never  liave  occupied  the  position  in  which  he  stands 
liere  to-day — and  these  proceedings  would  never  have  taken 
place.  Bear  that  fact  in  mind.  It  is  not  only  answerable  for 
the  mischief  that  has  been  already  done,  but  for  the  far  more 
serious  evil  Avhich  is  still  to  come." 

JMr.  Moy  took  a  note.     Sir  Patrick  went  on. 

"Loose  and  reckless  as  the  Scotch  law  is,  there  happens, 
liowever,  to  be  one  case  in  which  the  action  of  it  has  been  con- 
firmed and  settled  by  the  English  Courts.  A  written  promise 
of  marriage  exchanged  between  a  man  and  woman,  in  Scot- 
land, marries  that  man  and  woman  by  Scotch  law.  An  En- 
glish Court  of  Justice  (sitting  in  judgment  on  the  case  I  ha\'e 
just  mentioned  to  Mr.  Moy)  has  pronounced  that  law  to  bo 
good — and  the  decision  has  since  been  confirmed  by  the  su- 
]>reme  authority  of  the  House  of  Lords.  Where  the  persons 
therefore  —  living  in  Scotland  at  the  time- — have  promised 
each  other  marriage  in  writing,  there  is  now  no  longer  any 
doubt.  They  are  certainly,  and  lawfully,  Man  and  Wife." 
He  turned  from  his  niece,  and  appealed  to  Mr.  ]Mov.  "Am  I 
right  ?" 

"Quite  right.  Sir  Patrick,  as  to  the  facts.  I  own,  however, 
that  3'our  commentary  on  them  surprises  me.  I  have  the  high- 
est opinion  of  our  Scottish  marriage  law.  A  man  who  has  be- 
trayed a  woman  under  a  promise  of  marriage  is  forced  by  that 
law  (in  the  interests  of  public  morality)  to  acknowledge  her  as 
his  wife." 

"The  persons  here  present,  Mr.  Moy,  are  now  about  to  see 
the  moral  merit  of  the  Scotch  law  of  marriage  (as  approved  by 
England)  practically  in  operation  before  their  own  eyes.  They 
will  judge  for  themselves  of  the  morality  (Scotch  or  English) 
which  first  forces  a  deserted  woman  back  on  the  villain  who 
has  betrayed  her,  and  then  virtuously  leaves  her  to  bear  the 
consequences.'.' 


464  MAN   AND   WITE. 

With  that  answer,  he  turned  to  Anne,  and  showed  her  the 
letter,  open  in  his  hand. 

"  For  the  last  time,"  he  said, "  do  you  insist  on  my  appeal- 
ing to  this  ?" 

She  rose,  and  bowed  her  head  gravely. 

"  It  is  my  distressing  duty,"  said  Sir  Patrick, "  to  declare, 
in  this  lady's  name,  and  on  the  faith  of  written  promises  of 
marriage  exchanged  between  the  parties,  then  residing  in 
Scotland,  that  she  claims  to  be  now — and  to  have  been  on  the 
afternoon  of  the  fourteenth  of  August  last — Mr.  Geoffrey  Del- 
amayn's  wedded  wife." 

A  cry  of  horror  from  Blanche,  a  low  murmur  of  dismay  from 
the  rest,  followed  the  utterance  of  those  words. 

There  was  a  pause  of  an  instant. 

Then  Geoffrey  rose  slowly  to  his  feet,  and  fixed  his  eyes  on 
the  wife  who  had  claimed  hira. 

The  spectators  of  the  terrible  scene  turned  with  one  accord 
toward  the  sacrificed  woman.  The  look  which  Geoffrey  had 
cast  on  her — the  words  which  •Geoffrey  had  spoken  to  her — 
were  present  to  all  their  minds.  She  stood,  waiting  by  Sir 
Patrick's  side — her  soft  gray  eyes  resting  sadly  and  tenderly 
on  Blanche's  face.  To  see  that  matchless  courage  and  resigna- 
tion was  to  doubt  the  reality  of  what  had  happened.  They 
were  forced  to  look  back  at  the  man  to  possess  their  minds 
with  the  truth. 

The  triumph  of  law  and  morality  over  him  was  complete. 
He  never  uttered  a  word.  His  furious  temper  was  perfectly 
and  fearfully  calm.  With  the  promise  of  merciless  vengeance 
written  in  the  Devil's  writing  on  his  Devil-possessed  face,  he 
kept  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  hated  woman  whom  he  had  ruined 
— on  the  hated  woman  who  was  fastened  to  him  as  his  wife. 

His  lawyer  went  over  to  the  table  at  which  Sir  Patrick  sat. 
Sir  Patrick  handed  him  the  sheet  of  note-paper. 

He  read  the  two  letters  contained  in  it  with  absorbed  and 
deliberate  attention.  The  moments  that  passed  before  he  lift- 
ed his  head  from  his  reading  seemed  like  hours.  "  Can  you 
prove  the  handwritings  ?"  he  asked ;  "  and  prove  the  resi- 
dence ?" 

Sir  Patrick  took  up  a  second  morsel  of  paper  lying  ready 
under  his  hand. 

"There  are  the  names  of  persons  who  can  prove  the  writing, 
and  prove  the  residence,"  he  replied.  "  One  of  your  two  wit- 
nesses below  stairs  (otherwise  useless)  can  speak  to  the  hour 
at  which  Mr.  Brinkworth  arrived  at  the  inn,  and  so  can  prove 
that  the  lady  for  whom  he  asked  was,  at  that  moment,  Mrs. 
Geoffrey  Delamayn.  The  indorsement  on  the  back  of  the 
note-paper,  also  referring  to  the  question  of  time,  is  in  the 


MAN   AND   WIPE.  465 

handwriting  of  the  same  witness — to  whom  I  refer  you  when 

it  suits  your  convenience  to  question  him." 

"  I  will  verify  the  references,  Sir  Patrick,  as  a  matter  of 
form.  In  the  mean  time,  not  to  interpose  needless  and  vexa- 
tious delay,  I  am  bound  to  say  that  I  can  not  resist  the  evi- 
dence of  the  marriage." 

Having  replied  in  those  terms,  he  addressed  himself,  with 
marked  respect  and  sympathy,  to  Anne. 

"On  the  faith  of  the  written  promise  of  marriage  exchanged 
between  you  in  Scotland,"  he  said,  "  you  claim  Mr.  GeoiFrey 
Delamayn  as  your  husband  ?" 

She  steadily  repeated  the  words  after  him. 

"  I  claim  Mr.  Geoffrey  Delamayn  as  my  husband." 

Mr.  Moy  appealed  to  his  client.  Geoffrey  broke  silence  at 
last. 

"  Is  it  settled  ?"  he  asked. 

"To  all  practical  purposes,  it  is  settled," 

He  went  on,  still  looking  at  nobody  but  Anne, 

"Has  the  law  of  Scotland  made  her  my  wife?" 

"  The  law  of  Scotland  has  made  her  your  wife," 

He  asked  a  third  and  last  question. 

"Does  the  law  tell  her  to  go  where  her  husband  goes?" 

"  Yes." 

He  laughed  softly  to  himself,  and  beckoned  to  her  to  cross 
the  room  to  the  place  at  which  he  was  standing. 

She  obeyed.  At  the  moment  when  she  took  the  first  step 
to  approach  him,  Sir  Patrick  caught  her  hand,  and  whispered 
to  her,  "  Rely  on  me  !"  She  gently  pressed  his  hand  in  token 
that  she  understood  him,  and  advanced  to  Geoffrey.  At  the 
same  moment,  Blanche  rushed  between  them,  and  flung  her 
arms  around  Anne's  neck. 

"  Oh,  Anne  !  Anne  !" 

An  hysterical  passion  of  tears  choked  her  utterance.  Anne 
gently  unwound  the  arras  that  clung  round  her — gently  lifted 
the  head  that  lay  helpless  on  her  bosom. 

"Happier  days  are  coming,  my  love,"  she  said.  "Don't 
think  of  /ne." 

She  kissed  her — looked  at  her — kissed  her  again — and  placed 
her  in  her  husband's  arms.  Arnold  remembered  her  parting 
words  at  Craig  Fernie,  when  they  had  wished  each  other 
good-night.  "  You  have  not  befriended  an  ungrateful  woman. 
The  day  may  yet  come  when  I  shall  prove  it."  Gratitude  and 
admiration  struggled  in  him  which  should  utter  itself  first,  and 
held  him  speechless. 

She  bent  her  head  gently  in  token  that  she  understood  him. 
Then  she  went  on,  and  stood  before  Geoffrey. 

"  I  am  here,"  she  said  to  him.   "  What  do  you  wish  me  to  do  ?" 

30 


466  MAN    AND   WIFE. 

A  hideous  smile  parted  his  heavy  lips.     He  offered  her  his 
arm. 
"*T9r8.  Geoffrey  Delamayn,"  he  said.     "  Come  home." 

The  picture  of  the  lonely  house,  isolated  amidst  its  high 
walls;  the  ill-omened  figure  of  the  dumb  woman  with  the 
stony  eyes  and  the  savage  ways — the  whole  scene,  as  Anne 
had  pictured  it  to  him  but  two  days  since,  rose  vivid  as  reality 
before  Sir  Patrick's  mind.  "No," he  cried  out,  carried  away 
by  the  generous  impulse  of  the  moment.     "  It  shall  not  be !" 

Geoffrey  stood  impenetrable — waiting  with  liis  offered  arm. 
Pale  and  resolute,  she  lifted  her  noble  head — called  back  the 
courage  which  had  faltered  for  a  moment — and  took  his  arm. 

He  led  her  to  the  door.  "  Don't  let  Blanche  fret  about  me," 
she  said,  simply,  to  Arnold  as  they  went  by.  They  passed  Sir 
Patrick  next.  Once  more  his  sympathy  for  her  set  every  oth- 
er consideration  at  defiance.  He  started  up  to  bar  the  way  to 
Geoffrey.  Geoflrey  paused,  and  looked  at  Sir  Patrick  for  the 
first  time. 

"  The  law  tells  her  to  go  with  her  husband,"  he  said.  "  The 
law  forbids  you  to  part  Man  and  Wife." 

True.  Absolutely,  undeniably  true.  The  law  sanctioned 
the  sacrifice  of  her  as  unanswerably  as  it  had  sanctioned  the 
sacrifice  of  her  mother  before  her.  In  the  name  of  Morality, 
let  him  take  her  !  In  the  interests  of  Virtue,  let  her  get  out 
of  it  if  she  can  ! 

Her  husband  opened  the  door.  Mr.  Moy  laid  his  hand  on 
Sir  Patrick's  arm.  Lady  Lundie,  Captain  Newenden,  the  Lon- 
don lawyer,  all  left  their  places  ;  influenced,  for  once,  by  the 
same  interest ;  feeling,  for  once,  the  same  suspense.  Arnold 
followed  them,  supporting  his  wife.  For  one  memorable  in- 
stant Anne  looked  back  at  them  all.  Then  she  and  her  hus- 
band crossed  the  threshold.  They  descended  the  stairs  to- 
gether. The  opening  and  closing  of  the  house  door  was  heard. 
They  were  gone. 

Done,  in  the  name  of  Morality.  Done,  in  the  interests  of 
Virtue.  Done,  in  an  age  of  progress,  and  under  the  most  per 
feet  government  on  the  face  of  the  earth. 


MAN    AND    WIFE.  467 


FIFTEENTH  SCENE.— HOLCHESTER  HOUSE, 
CHAPTER  THE  FORTY-SEVENTH. 

THE    LAST   CHANCE, 

"Ilis  lordship  is  dangerously  ill,  sir.  Her  ladyship  can  le- 
eeive  no  visitors." 

"Be  so  good  as  to  take  that  card  to  Lady  Holchester.  It  is 
absolutely  necessary  that  your  mistress  should  be  made  ac- 
quainted— in  the  interests  of  her  younger  son — with  something 
which  I  can  only  mention  to  her  ladyship  herself," 

The  two  persons  speaking  were  Lord  Holchester's  head 
Tservant  and  Sir  Patrick  Lundie.  At  that  time  barely  half  an 
hour  had  passed  since  the  close  of  the  proceedings  at  Portland 
Place, 

The  servant  still  hesitated  with  the  card  in  bis  hand.  "I 
shall  forfeit  my  situation,"  he  said,  "if  I  do  it," 

"You  will  most  assuredly  forfeit  your  situation  if  you  donH 
do  it,"  returned  Sir  Patrick,  "  I  warn  you  plainly,  this  is  too 
serious  a  matter  to  be  trifled  with," 

The  tone  in  which  those  words  were  spoken  bad  its  effect. 
The  man  went  up  stairs  with  his  message. 

Sir  Patrick  waited  in  the  hall.  Even  the  momentary  delay 
of  entering  one  of  the  reception-rooms  was  more  than  he  could 
endure  at  that  moment,  Anne's  happiness  was  hopelessly  sac- 
rificed already.  The  preservation  of  her  personal  safety — 
which  Sir  Patrick  firmly  believed  to  be  in  danger  —  was  the 
one  service  which  it  was  possible  to  render  to  her  now.  The 
perilous  position  in  which  she  stood  toward  her  husband — as 
an  immovable  obstacle,  while  she  lived,  between  GeoflTrey  and 
Mrs.  Glenarm — was  beyond  the  reach  of  remedy.  But  it  was 
still  possible  to  prevent  her  from  becoming  the  innocent  cause 
of  Geofirey's  pecuniary  ruin,  by  standing  in  the  way  of  a  rec- 
onciliation between  father  and  son.  Resolute  to  leave  no 
means  untried  of  serving  Anne's  interests,  Sir  Patrick  had  al- 
lowed Arnold  and  Blanche  to  go  to  his  own  residence  in  Lon- 
don, alone,  and  had  not  even  waited  to  say  a  farewell  word  to 
any  of  the  persons  who  had  taken  part  in  the  inquiry,  "  Her 
life  may  depend  on  what  I  can  do  for  her  at  Holchester  House  !" 
With  that  conviction  in  him,  he  had  left  Portland  Place. 
With  that  conviction  in  him,  he  had  sent  his  message  to  Lady 
Holchester,  and  was  now  waiting  for  the  reply. 


468  MAN   AND    WIPE. 

The  servant  appeared  again  on  the  stairs.  Sir  Patrick  went 
up  to  meet  him. 

"  Her  ladyship  Avill  see  you,  sir,  for  a  few  minutes." 

The  door  of  an  upper  room  was  opened ;  and  Sir  Patrick 
found  himself  in  the  presence  of  Geoffrey's  mother.  There 
was  only  time  to  observe  that  she  possessed  the  remains  of 
rare  personal  beauty,  and  that  she  received  her  visitor  with  a 
grace  and  courtesy  which  implied  (under  the  circumstances)  a 
considerate  regard  for  his  position  at  the  expense  of  her  own. 

"  You  have  something  to  say  to  me,  Sir  Patrick,  on  the  sub- 
ject of  my  second  son.  I  am  in  great  affliction.  If  you  bring 
me  bad  news,  I  will  do  my  best  to  bear  it.  May  I  trust  to 
your  kindness  not  to  keep  me  in  suspense  ?" 

"  It  will  help  me  to  make  my  intrusion  as  little  painful  as 
possible  to  your  ladyship,"  replied  Sir  Patrick,  "  if  I  am  per- 
mitted to  ask  a  question.  Have  you  heard  of  any  obstacle 
to  the  contemplated  marriage  of  Mr.  Geoffrey  Delamayn  and 
Mrs.  Glenarm  ?" 

Even  that  distant  reference  to  Anne  produced  an  ominous 
change  for  the  worse  in  Lady  Holchester's  manner. 

"  I  have  heard  of  the  obstacle  to  which  you  allude,"  she 
said.  "  Mrs.  Glenarm  is  an  intimate  friend  of  mine.  She  has 
informed  me  that  a  person  named  Silvester,  an  impudent  ad- 
venturess— " 

"I  beg  your  ladyship's  pardon.  You  are  doing  a  cruel 
wrong  to  the  noblest  woman  I  have  ever  met  with." 

"  I  can  not  undertake.  Sir  Patrick,  to  enter  into  your  reasons 
for  admiring  her.  Her  conduct  toward  my  son  has,  I  repeat, 
been  the  conduct  of  an  impudent  adventuress." 

Those  words  showed  Sir  Patrick  the  utter  hopelessness  of 
shaking  her  prejudice  against  Anne.  He  decided  on  proceed- 
ing at  once  to  the  disclosure  of  the  truth. 

"  I  entreat  you  to  say  no  more,"  he  answered.  "  Your  lady- 
ship is  speaking  of  your  son's  wife." 

"  My  son  has  married  Miss  Silvester  ?" 

"Yes." 

She  turned  deadly  pale.  It  appeared,  for  an  instant,  as  if 
the  shock  had  completely  overwhelmed  her.  But  the  mother's 
weakness  was  only  momentary.  The  virtuous  indignation  of 
the  great  lady  had  taken  its  place  before  Sir  Patrick  could 
speak  again.     She  rose  to  terminate  the  interview. 

"I  presume,"  she  said,  "that  your  errand  here  is  at  an  end." 

Sir  Patrick  rose,  on  his  side,  resolute  to  do  the  duty  which 
had  brought  him  to  the  house. 

"I  am  compelled  to  trespass  on  your  ladyship's  attention  for 
a  few  minutes  more,"  he  answered.  "The  circumstances  at- 
tending the  marriage  of  Mr,  Geoffrey  Delamayn  are  of  no  com' 


i  MAN   AND   WIFE.  469 

mon  importance.  I  beg  permission  (in  the  interests  of  his  fam- 
ily) to  state,  very  briefly,  what  they  are." 

In  a  few  clear  sentences  he  narrated  what  had  happened, 
!that  afternoon,  in  Portland  Place.  Lady  Holchester  listened 
with  the  steadiest  and  coldest  attention.  So  far  as  outward 
appearances  were  concerned,  no  impression  was  produced  upon 
iher. 

"Do  you  expect  me,"  she  asked,  "  to  espouse  the  interests  of 
a  person  who  has  prevented  my  son  from  marrying  the  lady 
I  of  his  choice,  and  of  mine  ?" 

"  Mr.  Geoffrey  Delamayn,  unhappily,  has  that  reason  for  re- 
senting his  wife's  innocent  interference  with  interests  of  con- 
siderable importance  to  him,"  returned  Sir  Patrick.  "I  re- 
quest your  ladyship  to  consider  whether  it  is  desirable — in 
view  of  your  son's  conduct  in  the  future — to  allow  his  wife  to 
stand  in  the  doubly  perilous  relation  toward  him  of  being  also 
a  cause  of  estrangement  between  his  father  and  himself" 

He  had  put  it  with  scrupulous  caution.  But  Lady  Holches- 
ter understood  what  he  had  refrained  from  saying  as  well  as 
what  he  had  actually  said.  She  had  hitherto  remained  stand- 
ing— she  now  sat  down  again.  There  was  a  visible  impression 
produced  on  her  at  last. 

"  In  Lord  Holchester's  critical  state  of  health,"  she  answered, 
"  I  decline  to  take  the  responsibility  of  telling  him  what  you 
have  just  told  me.  My  own  influence  has  been  uniformly  ex- 
erted in  my  son's  favor — as  long  as  my  interference  could  be 
productive  of  any  good  result.  The  time  for  my  interference 
has  passed.  Lord  Holchester  has  altered  his  will  this  morn- 
ing. I  was  not  present ;  and  I  have  not  yet  been  informed  of 
what  has  been  done.     Even  if  I  knew — " 

"  Your  ladyship  would  naturally  decline,"  said  Sir  Patrick, 
"  to  communicate  the  information  to  a  stranger." 

"Certainly.  At  the  same  time,  after  what  you  have  said,  I 
do  not  feel  justified  in  deciding  on  this  matter  entirely  by  my- 
self One  of  Lord  Holchester's  executors  is  now  in  the  house. 
There  can  be  no  impropriety  in  your  seeing  him — if  you  wish 
it.  You  are  at  liberty  to  say,  from  me,  that  I  leave  it  entirely 
to  his  discretion  to  decide  what  ought  to  be  done." 

"  I  gladly  accept  your  ladyship's  proposal." 

Lady  Holchester  rang  the  bell  at  her  side. 

"  Take  Sir  Patrick  Lundie  to  Mr.  Marchwood,"  she  said  to 
the  servant. 

Sir  Patrick  started.  The  name  was  familiar  to  him,  as  the 
name  of  a  friend. 

"  Mr.  Marchwood  of  Hurlbeck?"  he  asked. 

"  The  same." 

With  that  brief  answer.  Lady  Holchester  dismissed  her  vis- 


470  MAN   AND   WIFE. 

itor.  Following  the  servant  to  the  other  end  of  the  corridor, 
Sir  Patrick  was  conducted  into  a  small  room — the  antecham- 
ber to  the  bedroom  in  which  Lord  Holchester  lay.  The  door 
of  communication  was  closed.  A  gentleman  sat  writing  at  a 
table  near  the  window.  He  rose,  and  held  out  his  hand,  with 
a  look  of  surprise,  when  the  servant  announced  Sir  Patrick's 
name.     This  was  Mr.  Marchwood. 

After  the  first  explanations  had  been  given.  Sir  Patrick  pa- 
tiently reverted  to  the  object  of  his  visit  to  Holchester  House. 
On  the  first  occasion  when  he  mentioned  Anne's  name  he  ob- 
served that  Mr.  Marchwood  became,  from  that  moment,  spe- 
cially interested  in  what  he  was  saying. 

"  Do  you  happen  to  be  acquainted  with  the  lady  ?"  he  asked. 

"  I  only  know  her  as  the  cause  of  a  very  strange  proceeding, 
this  morning,  in  that  room."  He  pointed  to  Lord  Holchester's 
bedroom  as  he  spoke. 

"Are  you  at  liberty  to  mention  what  the  proceeding  was?" 

"Hardly — even  to  an  old  friend  like  you — unless  I  felt  it  a 
matter  of  duty,  on  my  part,  to  state  the  circumstances.  Pray 
go  on  with  what  you  were  saying  to  me.  You  were  on  the 
point  of  telling  me  what  brought  you  to  this  house." 

Without  a  word  more  of  preface,  Sir  Patrick  told  him  the 
news  of  Geoffi'ey's  marriage  to  Anne. 

"Married  !"  cried  Mr.  Marchwood.  "Are  you  sure  of  what 
you  say?" 

"  I  am  one  of  the  witnesses  of  the  marriage." 

"  Good  heavens !  And  Lord  Holchester's  lawyer  has  left 
the  house !" 

"Can  I  replace  him?  Have  I,  by  any  chance,  justified  you 
in  telling  me  what  happened  this  morning  in  the  next  room  ?" 

"  Justified  me  ?  You  have  left  me  no  other  alternative. 
The  doctors  are  all  agreed  in  dreading  apoplexy — his  lordship 
may  die  at  any  moment.  In  the  lawyer's  absence,  I  must  take 
it  on  myself  Here  are  the  facts.  There  is  the  codicil  to  Lord 
Holchester's  Will,  which  is  still  unsigned." 

"  Relating  to  his  second  son  ?" 

"  Relating  to  Geofii-ey  Delamayn,  and  giving  him  (when  it 
is  once  executed)  a  liberal  provision  for  life." 

"  What  is  the  object  in  the  way  of  his  executing  it?" 

"The  lady  whom  you  have  just  mentioned  to  me." 

"Anne  Silvester?" 

"Anne  Silvester — now  (as  you  tell  me)  Mrs.  Geoffrey  Dela- 
mayn. I  can  only  explain  the  thing  very  imperfectly.  There 
are  certain  painful  circumstances  associated  in  his  lordship's 
memory  with  this  lady,  or  with  some  member  of  her  family. 
We  can  only  gather  that  he  did  something — in  the  early  part 
of  his  professional  career — which  was  strictly  within  the  lini- 


■  MAN    AND   WIFE.  4*71 

its  of  his  duty,  but  which  apparently  led  to  very  sad  results. 
Some  days  since  he  unfortunately  heard  (either  through  Mrs. 
iGlenarm  or  through  Mrs.  Julius  Delamayn)  of  Miss  Silvester's 
i  appearance  at  Swanhaven  Lodge.  No  remark  on  the  subject 
I  escaped  him  at  the  time.  It  was  only  this  morning,  when  the 
codicil  giving  the  legacy  to  Geoffrey  was  waiting  to  be  exe- 
cuted, that  his  real  feeling  in  the  matter  came  out.  To  our  as- 
tonishment, he  refused  to  sign  it.  'Find  Anne  Silvester'  (was 
the  only  answer  we  could  get  from  him);  'and  bring  her  to 
my  bedside.  You  all  say  my  son  is  guiltless  of  injuring  her. 
I  am  lying  on  my  death-bed.  I  have  serious  reasons  of  my 
own — I  owe  it  to  the  memory  of  the  dead — to  assure  myself 
of  the  truth.  If  Anne  Silvester  herself  acquits  him  of  having 
wronged  her,  I  will  provide  for  Geoffrey.  Not  otherwise.' 
We  went  the  length  of  reminding  him  that  he  might  die  be- 
fore Miss  Silvester  could  be  found.  Our  interference  had  but 
one  result.  He  desired  the  lawyer  to  add  a  second  codicil  to 
the  Will — which  he  executed  on  the  spot.  It  directs  his  ex- 
ecutors to  inquire  into  the  relations  that  have  actually  existed 
between  Anne  Silvester  and  his  younger  son.  If  we  find  rea- 
son to  conclude  that  Geoffrey  has  gravely  wronged  her,  we  are 
directed  to  pay  her  a  legacy — provided  that  she  is  a  single 
woman  at  the  time." 

"And  her  marriage  violates  the  provision  !"  exclaimed  Sir 
Patrick. 

"  Yes.  The  codicil  actually  executed  is  now  worthless. 
And  the  other  codicil  remains  unsigned  until  the  lawyer  can 
produce  Miss  Silvester.  He  has  left  the  house  to  apply  to 
Geoffrey  at  Fulham,  as  the  only  means  at  our  disposal  of  find- 
ing the  lady.  Some  hours  have  passed — and  he  has  not  yet 
returned." 

"  It  is  useless  to  wait  for  him,"  said  Sir  Patrick.  "  While 
the  lawyer  was  on  his  way  to  Fulham,  Lord  Holchester's  son 
was  on  his  way  to  Portland  Place.  This  is  even  more  serious 
than  you  suppose.  Tell  me,  what  under  less  pressing  circum- 
stances I  should  have  no  right  to  ask.  Apart  from  the  unex- 
ecuted codicil,  what  is  Geoffrey  Delamayn's  position  in  the 
will  ?" 

"  He  is  not  even  mentioned  in  it." 

"  Have  you  got  the  will  ?" 

Mr.  Marchwood  unlocked  the  drawer,  and  took  it  out. 

Sir  Patrick  instantly  rose  from  his  chair.  "  No  waiting  for 
the  lawyer !"  he  repeated,  vehemently.  "  This  is  a  matter  of 
life  and  death.  Lady  Holchester  bitterly  resents  her  son's  mar- 
riage. She  speaks  and  feels  as  a  friend  of  Mrs.  Glenarm.  Do 
you  think  Lord  Holchester  would  take  the  same  view,  if  he 
knew  of  it?" 


472  MAN    AND   WIFE. 

"  It  depends  entirely  on  the  circumstances." 

"  Suppose  I  informed  him — as  I  inform  you  in  confidence — 
that  his  son  has  gravely  wronged  Miss  Silvester  ?  And  sup- 
pose I  followed  that  up  by  telling  him  that  his  son  has  made 
atonement  by  marrying  her  ?" 

"After  the  feeling  that  he  has  shown  in  the  matter,  I  believe 
he  would  sign  the  codicil." 

"  Then,  for  God's  sake,  let  me  see  him !" 

"  I  must  speak  to  the  doctor." 

"Do  it  instantly  !" 

With  the  will  in  his  hand,  Mr.  Marchwood  advanced  to  the 
bedroom  door.  It  was  opened  from  within  before  he  could 
get  to  it.  The  doctor  appeared  on  the  threshold.  He  held  up 
his  hand  warningly  when  Mr.  Marchwood  attempted  to  speak 
to  him. 

"  Go  to  Lady  Holchester,"  he  said.     "  It's  all  over." 

"  Dead  ?" 

"Dead." 


SIXTEENTH  SCENE.— SALT  PATCH. 
CHAPTER    THE    FORTY-EIGHTH. 

THE   PLACE. 

Early  in  the  present  century  it  was  generally  reported 
among  the  neighbors  of  one  Reuben  Limbrick  that  he  was 
in  a  fair  way  to  make  a  comfortable  little  fortune  by  dealing 
in  salt. 

His  place  of  abode  was  in  StaiFordshire,  on  a  morsel  of  free- 
hold land  of  his  own — appropriately  called  Salt  Patch.  With- 
out being  absolutely  a  miser,  he  lived  in  the  humblest  manner, 
saw  very  little  company ;  skillfully  invested  his  money ;  and 
persisted  in  remaining  a  single  man. 

Toward  eighteen  hundred  and  forty  he  first  felt  the  approach 
of  the  chronic  malady  which  ultimately  terminated  his  life. 
After  trying  what  the  medical  men  of  his  own  locality  could 
do  for  him,  with  very  poor  success,  he  met  by  accident  with  a 
doctor  living  in  the  western  suburbs  of  London,  who  thorough- 
ly understood  his  complaint.  After  some  journeying  backward 
and  forward  to  consult  this  gentleman,  he  decided  on  retiring 
from  business,  and  on  taking  up  his  abode  within  an  easy  dis- 
tance of  his  medical  man. 

Finding  a  piece  of  freehold  land  to  be  sold  in  the  neighbor- 
hood of  Fulham,  he  bought  it,  and  had  a  cottage  residence 
built  on  it^  under  his  own  directions.    He  surrounded  the  whole 


MAN    AND   WIFE.  473 

■ — being  a  man  singularly  jealous  of  any  intrusion  on  his  retire- 
ment, or  of  any  chance  observation  of  his  ways  and  habits — 
with  a  high  wall,  which  cost  a  large  sum  of  money,  and  which 
was  rightly  considered  a  dismal  and  hideous  object  by  the 
neighbors.  When  the  new  residence  was  completed,  he  called 
it  after  the  name  of  the  place  in  Staifordshire,  where  he  had 
made  his  money,  and  where  he  had  lived  during  the  happiest 
period  of  his  life.  His  relatives,  failing  to  understand  that  a 
question  of  sentiment  was  involved  in  this  proceeding,  appealed 
to  hard  facts,  and  reminded  him  that  there  were  no  salt-mines 
in  the  neighborhood.  Reuben  Limbrick  answered,  "  So  much 
the  worse  for  the  neighborhood" — and  persisted  in  calling  his 
property  "  Salt  Patch." 

The  cottage  was  so  small  that  it  looked  quite  lost  in  the 
large  garden  all  round  it.  There  was  a  ground-floor  and  a 
floor  above  it — and  that  was  all. 

On  either  side  of  the  passage,  on  the  lower  floor,  were  two 
rooms.  At  the  right-hand  side,  on  entering  by  the  lYont  door, 
there  was  a  kitchen,  with  its  outhouses  attached.  The  room 
next  to  the  kitchen  looked  into  the  garden.  In  Reuben  Lim- 
brick's  time  it  was  called  a  study,  and  contained  a  small  col- 
lection of  books  and  a  large  store  of  fishing-tackle.  On  the 
left-hand  side  of  the  passage  there  was  a  drawing-room  situated 
at  the  back  of  the  house,  and  communicating  with  a  dining- 
room  in  the  front.  On  the  upper  floor  there  were  five  bed- 
rooms— two  on  one  side  of  the  passage,  corresponding  in  size 
with  the  dining-room  and  the  drawing-room  below,  but  not 
opening  into  each  other;  three  on  the  other  side  of  the  pas- 
sage, consisting  of  one  larger  room  in  front,  and  of  two  small 
rooms  at  the  back.  All  these  were  solidly  and  completely  fur- 
nished. Money  had  not  been  spared,  and  workmanship  had 
not  been  stinted.  It  was  all  substantial — and,  up  stairs  and 
down  stairs,  it  was  all  ugly. 

The  situation  of  Salt  Patch  was  lonely.  The  lands  of  the 
market-gardeners  separated  it  from  other  houses.  Jealously 
surrounded  by  its  own  high  walls,  the  cottage  suggested,  even 
to  the  most  imimaginative  persons,  the  idea  of  an  asylum  or  a 
prison.  Reuben  Limbrick's  relatives,  occasionally  coming  to 
stay  with  him,  found  the  place  prey  on  their  spirits,  and  re- 
joiced when  the  time  came  for  going  home  again.  They  were 
never  pressed  to  stay  against  their  will.  Reuben  Limbrick 
was  not  a  hospitable  or  a  sociable  man.  He  set  very  little 
value  on  human  sympathy,  in  his  attacks  of  illness;  and  he 
bore  congratulations  impatiently,  in  his  intervals  of  health. 
"  I  care  about  nothing  but  fishing,"  he  used  to  say.  "  I  find 
my  dog  very  good  company.  And  I  am  quite  happy  as  long 
as  I  am  free  from  pain." 


474  MAN   AND   WIFE. 

On  his  death-bed  he  divided  his  money  justly  enough  among 
his  relations.  The  only  part  of  his  Will  which  exposed  itself  to 
unfavorable  criticism,  was  a  clause  conferring  a  legacy  on  one 
of  his  sisters  (then  a  widow)  who  had  estranged  herself  from 
her  family  by  marrying  beneath  her.  The  family  agreed  in  con- 
sidering this  unhappy  person  as  undeserving  of  notice  or  bene- 
fit. Her  name  was  Hester  Dethridge.  It  proved  to  be  a  great 
aggravation  of  Hester's  offenses,  in  the  eyes  of  Hester's  rela- 
tives, when  it  was  discovered  that  she  possessed  a  life  interest 
in  Salt  Patch,  and  an  income  of  two  hundred  a  year. 

Not  visited  by  the  surviving  members  of  her  family,  living, 
literally,  by  herself  in  the  world,  Hester  decided,  in  spite  of  her 
comfortable  little  income,  on  letting  lodgings.  The  explana- 
tion of  this  strange  conduct  which  she  had  written  on  her  slate, 
in  reply  to  an  inquiry  from  Anne,  was  the  true  one.  "  I  have 
not  got  a  friend  in  the  world :  I  dare  not  live  alone."  In  that 
desolate  situation,  and  with  that  melancholy  motive,  she  put  the 
house  into  an  agent's  hands.  The  first  person  in  want  of  lodg- 
ings whom  the  agent  sent  to  see  the  place  was  Perry  the  train- 
er ;  and  Hester's  first  tenant  was  Geoffrey  Delamayn. 

The  rooms  which  the  landlady  reserved  for  herself  were  the 
kitchen,  the  room  next  to  it,  which  had  once  been  her  brother's 
"  study,"  and  the  two  small  back  bedrooms  up  stairs — one  for 
herself,  the  other  for  the  servant-girl  whom  she  employed  to 
help  her.  The  whole  of  the  rest  of  the  cottage  was  to  let.  It 
was  more  than  the  trainer  wanted  ;  but  Hester  Dethridge  re- 
fused to  dispose  of  her  lodgings — either  as  to  the  rooms  occu- 
pied, or  as  to  the  period  for  which  they  were  to  be  taken — on 
other  than  her  own  terms.  Perry  had  no  alternative  but  to 
lose  the  advantage  of  the  garden  as  a  private  training-ground, 
or  to  submit. 

Being  only  two  in  number,  the  lodgers  had  three  bedrooms 
to  choose  from.  Geoffrey  established  himself  in  the  back  room, 
over  the  drawing-room.  Perry  chose  the  front  room,  placed  on 
the  other  side  of  the  cottage,  next  to  the  two  smaller  apart- 
ments occupied  by  Hester  and  her  maid.  Under  this  arrange- 
ment, the  front  bedroom,  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  passage — 
next  to  the  room  in  which  Geoffrey  slept — was  left  empty,  and 
was  called,  for  the  time  being,  the  spare  room.  As  for  the  low- 
er floor,  the  athlete  and  his  trainer  ate  their  meals  in  the  dining- 
room  ;  and  left  the  drawing-room,  as  a  needless  luxury,  to  take 
care  of  itself. 

The  Foot-race  once  over,  Perry's  business  at  the  cottage  was 
at  an  end.  His  empty  bedroom  became  a  second  spare  room. 
The  term  for  which  the  lodgings  had  been  taken  was  then  still 
unexpired.  On  the  day  after  the  race  Geoffrey  had  to  choose 
between  sacrificing  the  money,  or  remaining  in  the  lodgings 


MAN    AND    WIFE.  475 

by  himself,  with  two  spare  bedrooms  on  his  hands,  and  with  a 
drawing-room  for  the  reception  of  his  visitors — who  called  with 
pipes  in  their  mouths,  and  whose  idea  of  hospitality  was  a  pot 
of  beer  in  the  garden. 

To  use  his  own  phrase,  he  was  "  out  of  sorts."  A  sluggish 
reluctance  to  face  change  of  any  kind  possessed  him.  He  de- 
cided on  staying  at  Salt  Patch  until  his  marriage  to  Mrs.  Glen- 
arm  (which  he  then  looked  upon  as  a  certainty)  obliged  him  to 
alter  his  habits  completely,  once  for  all.  From  Fulham  he  had 
gone,  the  next  day,  to  attend  the  inquiry  in  Portland  Place. 
And  to  Fulham  he  returned,  when  he  brought  the  wife  who 
had  been  forced  upon  him  to  her  "home." 

Such  was  the  position  of  the  tenant,  and  such  were  the  ar- 
rangements of  the  interior  of  the  cottage,  on  the  memorable 
evening  when  Anne  Silvester  entered  it  as  GeofiVey's  wife. 


CHAPTER  THE  FORTY-NINTH. 

THE   NIGHT. 

On  leaving  Lady  Lundie's  house,  Geoffrey  called  the  fir^ 
empty  cab  that  passed  him.  He  opened  the  door,  and  signed 
to  Anne  to  enter  the  vehicle.  She  obeyed  him  mechanically. 
He  placed  himself  on  the  seat  opposite  to  her,  and  told  the  man 
to  drive  to  Fulham. 

The  cab  started  on  its  journey,  husband  and  wife  preserv- 
ing absolute  silence.  Anne  laid  her  head  back  wearily,  and 
closed  her  eyes.  Her  strength  had  broken  down  under  the  ef- 
fort which  had  sustained  her  from  the  beginning  to  the  end  of 
the  inquiry.  Her  power  of  thinking  was  gone.  She  felt  noth- 
ing, knew  nothing,  feared  nothing.  Half  in  faintness,  half  in 
slumber,  she  had  lost  all  sense  of  her  own  terrible  position  be- 
fore the  first  five  minutes  of  the  journey  to  Fulham  had  come 
to  an  end. 

Sitting  opposite  to  her,  savagely  self-concentrated  in  his  own 
thoughts,  Geoffrey  roused  himself  on  a  sudden.  An  idea  had 
sprung  to  life  in  his  sluggish  brain.  He  put  his  head  out  of 
the  window  of  the  cab,  and  directed  the  driver  to  turn  back, 
and  go  to  a  hotel  near  the  Great  Northern  Railway. 

Resuming  his  seat,  he  looked  furtively  at  Anne.  She  neither 
moved  nor  opened  her  eyes — she  was,  to  all  appearance,  uncon- 
scious of  what  had  happened.  He  observed  her  attentively. 
Was  she  really  ill  ?  Was  the  time  coming  when  he  would  be 
freed  from  her?  He  pondered  over  that  question — watching 
her  closely.  Little  by  little  the  vile  hope  slowly  in  him  died 
away,  and  a  vile  suspicion  took  its  place.     What  if  this  ap- 


476  MAN    AND    WIFE. 

pearance  of  illness  was  a  pretense  ?  What  if  she  was  waiting 
to  throw  him  olF  his  guard,  and  escape  from  him  at  the  first  op- 
portunity ?  He  put  his  head  out  of  the  window  again,  and 
gave  another  order  to  the  driver.  The  cab  diverged  from  the 
direct  route,  and  stopped  at  a  public-house  in  Holborn,  kept 
(under  an  assumed  name)  by  Perry  the  trainer. 

Geofirey  wrote  a  line  in  pencil  on  his  card,  and  sent  it  into 
the  house  by  the  driver.  After  waiting  some  minutes,  a  lad 
appeared  and  touched  his  hat.  Geoffrey  spoke  to  him  out  of 
the  window  in  an  under-tone.  The  lad  took  his  place  on  the 
box  by  the  driver.  The  cab  turned  back,  and  took  the  road 
to  the  hotel  near  the  Great  Northern  Railway. 

Arrived  at  the  place,  Geoffrey  posted  the  lad  close  at  the 
door  of  the  cab,  and  pointed  to  Anne,  still  reclining  with  closed 
eyes  ;  still,  as  it  seemed,  too  weary  to  lift  her  head,  too  faint 
to  notice  any  thing  that  happened.  "  If  she  attempts  to  get 
out,  stop  her  and  send  for  me."  With  those  parting  directions 
he  entered  the  hotel,  and  asked  for  Mr.  Moy. 

Mr.  Moy  was  in  the  house  ;  he  had  just  returned  from  Port- 
land Place.  He  rose,  and  bowed  coldly,  when  Geoffrey  was 
shown  into  his  sitting-room. 

"  What  is  your  business  with  me  ?"  he  asked. 

"  I've  had  a  notion  come  into  my  head," said  Geoffrey, "and 
I  want  to  speak  to  you  about  it  directly." 

"  I  must  request  you  to  consult  some  one  else.  Consider 
me,  if  you  please,  as  having  withdrawn  from  all  further  con- 
nection with  your  affairs." 

Geoffrey  looked  at  him  in  stolid  surprise. 

"  Do  you  mean  to  say  you're  going  to  leave  me  in  the  lurch  ?" 
he  asked. 

"  I  mean  to  say  that  I  will  take  no  fresh  step  in  any  business 
of  yours,"  answered  Mr.  Moy,  firmly.  "As  to  the  future,  I  have 
ceased  to  be  your  legal  adviser.  As  to  the  past,  I  shall  care- 
fully complete  the  formal  duties  toward  you  which  remain  to 
be  done.  Mrs.  Inchbare  and  Bishopriggs  are  coming  here,  by 
appointment,  at  six  this  evening,  to  receive  the  money  due  to 
them  before  they  go  back.  I  shall  return  to  Scotland  myself 
by  the  night  mail.  The  persons  referred  to  in  the  matter  of 
the  promise  of  marriage,  by  Sir  Patrick,  are  all  in  Scotland.  I 
will  take  their  evidence  as  to  the  handwriting,  and  as  to  the 
question  of  residence  in  the  North — and  I  will  send  it  to  you 
in  written  form.  That  done,  I  shall  have  done  all.  I  decline 
to  advise  you  in  any  future  step  which  you  propose  to  take." 

After  reflecting  for  a  moment,  Geoffrey  put  a  last  question. 

"  You  said  Bishopriggs  and  the  woman  would  be  here  at  six 
this  evening." 

"  Yes." 


MAN    AND    WIFE.  477 

"  Wliere  are  they  to  be  found  before  that  ?" 

Mr.  Moy  wrote  a  few  words  on  a  slip  of  paper,  and  handed 
it  to  Geoffrey.  "At  their  lodgings,"  he  said.  "There  is  the 
address." 

Geoffrey  took  the  address,  and  left  the  room.  Lawyer  and 
client  parted  without  a  word  on  either  side. 

Returning  to  the  cab,  Geoffrey  found  the  lad  steadily  wait- 
ing at  his  post. 

"  Has  any  thing  happened  ?" 

"  The  lady  hasn't  moved,  sir,  since  you  left  her." 

"  Is  Perry  at  the  public-house  ?" 

"  Not  at  this  time,  sir." 

"  I  want  a  lawyer.     Do  you  know  who  Perry's  lawyer  is  ?" 

"  Yes,  sir." 

"And  where  he  is  to  be  found  ?" 

"  Yes,  sir." 

"  Get  up  on  the  box,  and  tell  the  man  where  to  drive  to." 

The  cab  went  on  again  along  the  Euston  Road,  and  stopped 
at  a  house  in  a  side  street,  with  a  professional  brass  plate  on 
the  door.     The  lad  got  down  and  came  to  the  window. 

"  Here  it  is,  sir." 

"  Knock  at  the  door,  and  see  if  he  is  at  home." 

He  proved  to  be  at  home.  Geoffrey  entered  the  house,  leav- 
ing his  emissary  once  more  on  the  watch.  The  lad  noticed 
that  the  lady  moved  this  time.  She  shivered  as  if  she  felt 
cold — opened  her  eyes  for  a  moment  wearily,  and  looked  out 
through  the  window — sighed,  and  sank  back  again  in  the  cor- 
ner of  the  cab. 

After  an  absence  of  more  than  half  an  hour  Geoffrey  came 
out  again.  His  interview  with  Perry's  lawyer  appeared  to 
have  relieved  his  mind  of  something  that  had  oppressed  it. 
He  once  more  ordered  the  driver  to  go  to  Fulham — opened  the 
door  to  get  into  the  cab — then,  as  it  seemed,  suddenly  recol- 
lected himself — and,  calling  the  lad  down  from  the  box,  order- 
ed him  to  get  inside,  and  took  his  place  by  the  driver. 

As  the  cab  started,  he  looked  over  his  shoulder  at  Anne 
through  the  front  window.  "  Well  worth  trying,"  he  said  to 
himself  "It's  the  way  to  be  even  with  her.  x\nd  it's  the 
way  to  be  free." 

They  arrived  at  the  cottage.  Possibly,  repose  had  restored 
Anne's  strength.  Possibly,  the  sight  of  the  place  had  roused 
the  instinct  of  self-preservation  in  her  at  last.  To  Geoffrey's 
surprise,  she  left  the  cab  without  assistance.  When  he  open- 
ed the  wooden  gate,  with  his  own  key,  she  recoiled  from  it, 
and  looked  at  him  for  the  first  time. 

He  pointed  to  the  entrance. 

"  Go  in,"  he  said. 


4V8  MAN    AXD    WIFE. 

"  On  what  terms  ?"  she  asked,  without  stlrrhig  a  step. 

Geoffrey  dismissed  the  cab,  and  sent  the  lad  in  to  wait  for 
further  orders.  These  things  done,  he  answered  her  loudly 
and  brutally,  the  moment  they  were  alone  : 

"  On  any  terms  I  please," 

"  Nothing  will  induce  me,"  she  said,  firmly,  "  to  live  with 
you  as  your  wife.  You  may  kill  me — but  you  will  never  bend" 
me  to  that." 

He  advanced  a  step — opened  his  lips — and  suddenly  check- 
ed himself.  He  waited  a  while,  turning  something  over  in  his 
mind.  When  he  spoke  again,  it  was  with  marked  delibera- 
tion and  constraint — with  the  air  of  a  man  who  was  repeating 
words  put  into  his  lips,  or  words  prepared  beforehand. 

"  I  have  something  to  tell  you  in  the  presence  of  witnesses," 
he  said.  "  I  don't  ask  you,  or  wish  you,  to  see  me  in  the  cot- 
tage alone." 

She  started  at  the  change  in  him.  His  sudden  composure, 
and  his  sudden  nicety  in  the  choice  of  words,  tried  her  cour- 
age far  more  severely  than  it  had  been  tried  by  his  violence 
of  the  moment  before. 

He  waited  her  decision,  still  pointing  through  the  gate. 
She  trembled  a  little — steadied  herself  again — and  went  in. 
The  lad,  waiting  in  the  front  garden,  followed  her. 

He  threw  open  the  drawing-room  door,  on  the  left-band  side 
of  the  passage.  She  entered  the  room.  The  servant-girl  ap- 
peared. He  said  to  her,  "  Fetch  Mrs.  Dethridge  ;  and  come 
back  with  her  yourself"  Then  he  went  into  the  room  ;  the 
lad  by  his  own  directions, following  him  in;  and  the  door  be- 
ing left  wide  open. 

Hester  Dethridge  came  out  from  the  kitchen,  with  the  girl 
behind  her.  At  the  sight  of  Anne,  a  faint  and  momentary 
change  passed  over  the  stony  stillness  of  her  face.  A  dull  light 
glimmered  in  her  eyes.  She  slowly  nodded  her  head.  A 
dumb  sound,  vaguely  expressive  of  something  like  exultation 
or  relief,  escaped  her  lips. 

Geoffrey  spoke — once  more,  with  marked  deliberation  and 
constraint;  once  more,  with  the  air  of  repeating  something 
which  had  been  prepared  beforehand.     He  pointed  to  Anne. 

"  This  woman  is  ray  wife,"  he  said.  "  In  the  presence  of 
you  three,  as  witnesses,  I  tell  her  that  I  don't  forgive  her.  I 
have  brought  her  here — having  no  other  place  in  which  I  can 
trust  her  to  be — to  wait  the  issue  of  proceedings,  undertaken 
in  defense  of  my  own  honor  and  good  name.  While  she  stays 
here,  she  will  live  separate  from  me,  in  a  room  of  her  own. 
If  it  is  necessary  for  me  to  communicate  with  her,  I  shall  only 
see  her  in  the  presence  of  a  third  person.  Do  you  all  under- 
stand me  ?" 


I 


MAN   AND   WIFE.  4*79 

Hester  Dethvidge  bowed  her  head.  The  other  two  answered, 
"  Yes  " — and  turned  to  go  out.  Anne  rose.  At  a  sign  from 
Geoffrey,  the  servant  and  the  lad  waited  in  the  room  to  hear 
what  she  had  to  say. 

"  I  know  nothing  in  mj'-  conduct,"  she  said,  addressing  her- 
self to  Geoffrey,  "  which  justifies  you  in  telling  these  people 
that  you  don't  forgive  me.  Those  words  applied  by  you  to 
me  are  an  insult,  I  am  equally  ignorant  of  what  you  mean 
when  you  speak  of  defending  your  good  name.  All  I  under- 
stand is,  that  we  are  separate  persons  in  this  house,  and  that  I 
am  to  have  a  room  of  my  own,  I  am  grateful,  whatever  your 
motives  may  be,  for  the  arrangement  that  you  have  proposed. 
Direct  one  of  these  two  women  to  show  me  my  room." 

Geoffrey  turned  to  Hester  Dethridge, 

"  Take  her  up  stairs,"  he  said  ;  "  and  let  her  pick  which  room 
she  pleases.  Give  her  what  she  wants  to  eat  or  drink.  Bring 
down  the  address  of  the  place  where  her  luggage  is.  The  lad 
here  will  go  back  by  railway  and  fetch  it.    That's  all.    Be  off." 

Hester  went  out.  Anne  followed  her  up  the  stairs.  In  the 
passage  on  the  upper  floor  she  stopped.  The  dull  light  flicker- 
ed again  for  a  moment  in  her  eyes.  She  wrote  on  her  slate, 
and  held  it  up  to  Anne,  with  these  words  on  it :  "I  knew  you 
would  come  back.  It's  not  over  yet  between  you  and  him." 
Anne  made  no  reply.  She  went  on  writing,  with  something 
faintly  like  a  smile  on  her  thin,  colorless  lips.  "  I  know  some- 
thing of  bad  husbands.  Yours  is  as  bad  a  one  as  ever  stood 
in  shoes.  He'll  try  you."  Anne  made  an  effort  to  stop  her. 
"Don't  you  see  how  tired  I  am?"  she  said,  gently.  Hester 
Dethridge  dropped  the  slate — looked  with  a  steady  and  un- 
compassionate  attention  in  Anne's  face — nodded  her  head,  as 
much  as  to  say,  "  I  see  it  now  " — and  led  the  way  into  one  of 
the  empty  rooms. 

It  was  the  front  bedroom  over  the  drawing-room.  The  first 
glance  round  showed  it  to  be  scrupulously  clean,  and  solidly 
and  tastelessly  furnished.  The  hideous  paper  on  the  walls,  the 
hideous  carpet  on  the  floor,  were  both  of  the  best  quality. 
The  great  heavy  mahogany  bedstead,  with  its  curtains  hanging 
from  a  hook  in  the  ceiling,  and  with  its  clumsily-carved  head 
and  foot  on  the  same  level,  offered  to  the  view  the  anomalous 
spectacle  of  French  design  overwhelmed  by  English  execution. 
The  most  noticeable  thing  in  the  room  was  the  extraordinary 
attention  which  had  been  given  to  the  defense  of  the  door. 
Besides  the  usual  lock  and  key,  it  possessed  two  solid  bolts, 
fastening  inside  at  the  top  and  the  bottom.  It  had  been  one 
among  the  many  eccentric  sides  of  Reuben  Limbrick's  char- 
acter to  live  in  perpetual  dread  of  thieves  breaking  into  his 
cottasre  at  night.     All  the  outer  doors  and  all  the  window 


480  MAN    AND    WIFE. 

shutters  were  solidly  sheathed  with  iron,  and  had  alarm-bells 
attached  to  them  on  a  new  principle.  Every  one  of  the  bed- 
rooms possessed  its  two  bolts  on  the  inner  side  of  the  door. 
And  to  crown  all,  on  the  roof  of  the  cottage  was  a  little  belfry, 
containing  a  bell  large  enough  to  make  itself  heard  at  the  Ful- 
hani  police  station.  In  Reuben  Limbrick's  time  the  rope  had 
communicated  with  his  bedroom.  It  hung  now  against  the 
wall,  in  the  passage  outside. 

Looking  from  one  to  the  other  of  the  objects  around  her, 
Anne's  eyes  rested  on  the  partition  wall  which  divided  the  room 
from  the  room  next  to  it.  The  wall  was  not  broken  by  a  door 
of  communication  ;  it  had  nothing  placed  against  it  but  a  wash- 
hand-stand  and  two  chairs. 

"  Who  sleeps  in  the  next  room  ?"  said  Anne. 

Hester  Dethridge  pointed  down  to  the  drawing-room  in  which 
they  had  left  Geoffrey.     Geoffrey  slept  in  the  room. 

Anne  led  the  way  out  again  into  the  passage. 

"  Show  me  the  second  room,"  she  said. 

The  second  room  was  also  in  front  of  the  house.  More  ugli- 
ness (of  first-rate  quality)  in  the  paper  and  the  carpet.  Another 
heavy  mahogany  bedstead ;  but,  this  time,  a  bedstead  with  a 
canopy  attached  to  the  head  of  it — supporting  its  own  curtains. 
Anticipating  Anne's  inquiry,  on  this  occasion,  Hester  looked 
toward  the  next  room,  at  the  back  of  the  cottage,  and  pointed 
to  herself.  Anne  at  once  decided  on  choosing  the  second 
room  ;  it  was  the  farthest  from  Geoffrey.  Hester  waited  while 
she  wrote  the  address  at  Avhich  her  luggage  would  be  found 
(at  the  house  of  the  musical  agent),  and  then,  having  applied 
for  and  received  her  directions  as  to  the  evening  meal  which 
she  should  send  up  stairs,  quitted  the  room. 

Left  alone,  Anne  secured  the  door,  and  threw  herself  on  the 
bed.  Still  too  weary  to  exert  her  mind,  still  physically  inca- 
pable of  realizing  the  helplessness  and  the  peril  of  her  position, 
she  opened  a  locket  that  hung  from  her  neck,  kissed  the  por- 
trait of  her  mother  and  the  portrait  of  Blanche  placed  opposite 
to  each  other  inside  it,  and  sank  into  a  deep  and  dreamless 
sleep. 

Meanwhile  Geoffrey  repeated  his  final  orders  to  the  lad  at 
the  cottage  gate. 

"  AVhen  you  have  got  the  luggage,  you  are  to  go  to  the  law- 
yer. If  he  can  come  here  to-night,  you  will  show  him  the  way. 
If  he  can't  come,  you  will  bring  me  a  letter  from  him.  Make 
any  mistake  in  this,  and  it  will  be  the  worst  day's  work  you 
ever  did  in  your  life.    Away  with  you,  and  don't  lose  the  train." 

The  lad  ran  off.  Geoffrey  waited,  looking  after  him,  and 
turning  over  in  his  mind  what  had  been  done  up  to  that  time. 

*'Ali  right  so  far,"  be  said  to  himself.     "  I  didn't  ride  in  the 


MAN    AND    WIFE,  481 

cab  with  her.  I  told  her  before  witnesses  I  didn't  forgive  her, 
and  why  I  had  her  in  the  house.  I've  put  her  in  a  room  by 
herself.  And  if  I  nnist  see  her,  I  see  her  with  Hester  Dethridge 
for  a  witness.     My  part's  done — let  the  kwyer  do  his." 

He  strolled  round  into  the  back  garden,  and  lit  his  pipe. 
After  a  while,  as  the  twilight  faded,  he  saw  a  light  in  Hester's 
sitting-room  on  the  ground-floor.  He  went  to  the  window. 
Hester  and  the  servant-girl  were  both  there  at  work,  "  Well," 
he  asked,  "  how  about  the  woman  up  stairs  ?"  Hester's  slate, 
aided  by  the  girl's  tongue,  told  him  all  about  "  the  woman  " 
that  was  to  be  told.  They  had  taken  up  to  her  room  tea  and 
an  omelet ;  and  they  had  been  obliged  to  wake  her  from  a  sleep. 
She  had  eaten  a  little  of  the  omelet,  and  had  drunk  eagerly  of 
the  tea.  They  had  gone  up  again  to  take  the  tray  down.  She 
had  returned  to  the  bed — she  was  not  asleep — only  dull  and 
heavy.  Made  no  remark.  Looked  clean  worn  out.  We  left 
her  a  light ;  and  we  let  her  be.  Such  was  the  report.  After 
listening  to  it,  without  making  any  remark,  Geoffrey  filled  a 
second  pipe,  and  resumed  his  walk.  The  time  wore  on.  It 
began  to  feel  chilly  in  the  garden.  The  rising  wind  swept 
audibly  over  the  open  lands  round  the  cottage;  the  stars 
twinkled  their  last ;  nothing  was  to  be  seen  overhead  but  the 
black  void  of  night.    More  rain  coming.    Geoffrey  went  indoors. 

An  evening  newspaper  was  on  the  dining-room  table.  The 
candles  were  lit.  He  sat  down,  and  tried  to  read.  ISo! 
There  was  nothing  in  the  newspaper  that  he  cared  abou*^, 
The  time  for  hearing  from  the  lawyer  was  drawing  nearer  and 
nearer.  Reading  was  of  no  use.  Sitting  still  was  of  no  use 
He  got  up,  and  went  out  in  the  front  of  the  cottage — strolled 
to  the  gate — opened  it — and  looked  idly  up  and  down  the  road. 

But  one  living  creature  was  visible  by  the  light  of  the  gas- 
lamp  over  the  gate.  The  creature  came  nearer,  and  proved  to 
be  the  postman  going  his  last  round,  with  the  last  delivery  for 
the  night.     He  came  up  to  the  gate  with  a  letter  in  his  hand. 

"  The  Honorable  Geoffrey  Delamayn  ?" 

"All  right." 

He  took  the  letter  from  the  postman,  and  went  back  into  the 
dining-room.  Looking  at  the  address  by  the  light  of  the  can- 
dles, he  recognized  the  handwriting  of  Mrs.  Glenarm.  "To 
congratulate  me  on  my  marriage  !"  he  said  to  himself,  bitterly, 
and  opened  the  letter. 

Mrs.  Glenarm's  congratulations  were  expressed  in  these 
terms: 

"Mt  adored  Geoffrey, — I  have  heard  all.  My  beloved 
one  !  my  own !  you  are  sacrificed  to  the  vilest  wretch  that 
walks  the  earth,  and  I  have  lost  you !     How  is  it  that  I  liv« 

31 


482  MAN    AND    WIFE. 

after  hearing  it  ?  How  is  it  that  I  can  think,  and  write,  with 
my  brain  on  fire,  and  ray  heart  broken  ?  Oh,  my  angel,  there 
is  a  purpose  that  supports  me — pure,  beautiful,  worthy  of  us 
both.  I  live,  Geoffrey — I  live  to  dedicate  myself  to  the  adored 
idea  of  You.  My  hero  !  my  first,  last  love  !  I  will  marry  no 
other  man.  I  will  live  and  die — I  vow  it  solemnly  on  my 
bended  knees — I  will  live  and  die  true  to  You.  I  am  your 
Spiritual  Wife.  My  beloved  Geoffrey  !  she  can't  come  be- 
tween us,  there — she  can  never  rob  you  of  my  heart's  unaltera- 
ble fidelity,  of  my  soul's  unearthly  devotion.  I  am  your  Spir- 
itual Wife  !  Oh,  the  blameless  luxury  of  writing  those  words  ! 
Write  back  to  me,  beloved  one,  and  say  you  feel  it  too.  Vow 
it,  idol  of  my  heart,  as  I  have  vowed  it.  Unalterable  fidelity  ! 
unearthly  devotion!  Never,  never  will  I  be  the  wife  of  any 
other  man  !  Never,  never  will  I  forgive  the  woman  who  has 
come  between  us !  Yours  ever  and  only ;  yours  with  the 
stainless  passion  that  burns  on  the  altar  of  the  heart ;  yours, 
yours,  yours,  E.  G." 

This  outbreak  of  hysterical  nonsense — in  itself  simply  ridicu- 
lous— assumed  a  serious  importance  in  its  effect  on  Geoffrey. 
It  associated  the  direct  attainment  of  his  own  interests  with 
the  gratification  of  his  vengeance  on  Anne.  Ten  thousand  a 
year  self-dedicated  to  him — and  nothing  to  prevent  his  putting 
out  his  hand  and  taking  it  but  the  woman  who  had  caught 
him  in  her  trap,  the  woman  up  stairs  who  had  fastened  herself 
on  him  for  life  ! 

He  put  the  letter  into  bis  pocket.  "  Wait  till  I  hear  from 
the  lawyer,"  he  said  to  himself.  "  The  easiest  way  out  of  it  is 
that  way.     And  it's  the  law." 

He  looked  impatiently  at  his  watch.  As  he  put  it  back 
again  in  his  pocket  there  was  a  ring  at  the  bell.  Was  it  the 
lad  bringing  the  luggage  ?  Yes.  And,  with  it,  the  lawyer's 
report  ?     No.     Better  than  that — the  lawyer  himself. 

"  Come  in !"  cried  Geoffrey,  meeting  his  visitor  at  the  door. 

The  lawyer  entered  the  dining-room.  The  candle-light  re- 
vealed to  view  a  corpulent,  full-lipped,  bright-eyed  man — with 
a  stai?i  of  negro  blood  in  his  yellow  face,  and  with  unmistaka- 
ble traces  in  his  look  and  manner  of  walking  habitually  in  the 
dirtiest  professional  by-ways  of  the  law. 

"I've  got  a  little  place  of  my  own  in  your  neighborhood," 
he  said.  "  And  I  thought  I  would  look  in  myself,  Mr.  Dela- 
mayn,  on  my  way  home." 

"  Have  you  seen  the  witnesses  ?" 

"  I  have  examined  them  both,  sir.  First,  Mrs.  Inchbare  and 
Mr.  Bishopriggs  together.  Next,  Mrs.  Inchbare  and  Mr.  Bish- 
opriggs  separately." 


MAN   AND   WIFE.  483 

"Well?" 

"  Well,  sir,  the  result  is  unfavorable,  I  am  sorry  to  say." 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?" 

"  Neither  the  one  nor  the  other  of  them,  Mr.  Delamayn,  can 
give  the  evidence  we  want.     I  have  made  sure  of  that." 

"Made  sure  of  that?  You  have  made  an  infernal  mess  of 
it !     You  don't  understand  the  case  !" 

The  mulatto  lawyer  smiled.  The  rudeness  of  his  client  ap- 
peased only  to  amuse  him. 

"Don't  I?"  he  said.  "Suppose  you  tell  me  where  I  am 
wrong  about  it  ?  Here  it  is  in  outline  only.  On  the  four- 
teenth of  August  last  your  wife  was  at  an  inn  in  Scotland.  A 
gentleman  named  Arnold  Brinkworth  joined  her  there.  He 
represented  himself  to  be  her  husband,  and  he  staid  with  her 
till  the  next  morning.  Starting  from  those  facts,  the  object 
you  have  in  view  is  to  sue  for  a  Divorce  from  your  wife.  You 
make  Mr.  Arnold  Brinkworth  the  co-respondent.  And  you 
produce  in  evidence  the  waiter  and  the  landlady  of  the  inn. 
Any  thing  wrong,  sir,  so  far  ?" 

Nothing  wrong.  At  one  cowardly  stroke  to  cast  Anne  dis< 
graced  on  the  world,  and  to  set  himself  free — there,  plainly  and 
truly  stated,  was  the  scheme  which  he  had  devised  when  he 
had  turned  back  on  the  way  to  Fulham  to  consult  Mr.  Moy. 

"So  much  for  the  case,"  resumed  the  lawyer.  "Now  for 
what  I  have  done  on  receiving  your  instructions.  I  have  ex- 
amined the  witnesses;  and  I  have  had  an  interview  (not  a 
very  pleasant  one)  with  Mr.  Moy.  The  result  of  those  two 
proceedings  is  briefly  this.  First  discovery :  In  assuming  the 
character  of  the  lady's  husband,  Mr.  Brinkworth  was  acting 
under  your  directions — which  tells  dead  against  you.  Second 
discovery :  Not  the  slightest  impropriety  of  conduct,  not  an 
approach  even  to  harmless  familiarity,  was  detected  by  either 
of  the  witnesses,  while  the  lady  and  gentleman  were  together 
at  the  inn.  There  is  literally  no  evidence  to  produce  against 
them,  except  that  they  xcere  together — in  two  rooms.  How 
are  you  to  assume  a  guilty  piirpose,  when  you  can't  prove  an 
approach  to  a  guilty  act  ?  You  can  no  more  take  such  a  case  as 
that  into  Court  than  you  can  jump  over  the  roof  of  this  cottage." 

He  looked  hard  at  his  client,  expecting  to  receive  a  violent 
reply.  His  client  agreeably  disappointed  him.  A  very  strange 
impression  appeared  to  have  been  produced  on  this  reckless 
and  headstrong  man.  He  got  up  quietly ;  he  spoke  with  per- 
fect outward  composure  of  face  and  manner  when  he  said  his 
next  words. 

"  Have  you  given  up  the  case  ?" 
..  "As  things  are  at  present,  Mr.  Delamayn,  there  is  no  case." 

"And  no  hope  of  my  getting  divorced  from  her?" 


484  MAN   AND   WrFE. 

"  Wait  a  moment.  Have  your  wife  and  Mr.  Brinkworth  met 
nowhere  since  they  were  together  at  the  Scotch  inn  ?" 

"  Nowhere." 

"As  to  the  future,  of  course  I  can't  say.  As  to  the  past, 
there  is  no  hope  of  your  getting  divorced  from  her." 

"Thank  you.     Good-night." 

"  Good-night,  Mr.  Delamayn." 

Fastened  to  her  for  life — and  the  law  powerless  to  cut  the 
knot. 

He  pondered  over  that  result  until  he  had  thoroughly  real- 
ized it  and  fixed  it  in  his  mind.  Then  he  took  out  Mrs.  Glen- 
arm's  letter,  and  read  it  through  again  attentively  from  be- 
ginning to  end. 

Nothing  could  shake  her  devotion  to  him.  Nothing  would 
induce  her  to  marry  another  man.  There  she  was — in  her  own 
words  —  dedicated  to  him;  waiting,  with  her  fortune  at  her 
own  disposal,  to  be  his  wife.  There  also  was  his  father,  wait- 
ing (so  far  as  he  knew,  in  the  absence  of  any  tidings  from  Hol- 
chester  House)  to  welcome  Mrs.  Glenarm  as  a  daughter-in-law, 
and  to  give  Mrs.  Glenarm's  husband  an  income  of  his  own.  As 
fair  a  prospect,  on  all  sides,  as  man  could  desire.  And  notli- 
ing  in  the  way  of  it  but  the  woman  who  had  caught  him  in 
her  trap — the  woman  up  stairs  who  had  fastened  herself  on 
him  for  life. 

He  went  out  in  the  garden  in  the  darkness  of  the  night. 

There  was  open  communication,  on  all  sides,  between  the 
back  garden  and  the  front.     He  walked  round  and  round  the 
cottage — now  appearing  in  a  stream  of  light  from  a  window  ; 
now  disappearing  again  in  the  darkness.     The  wind  blew  re- 
freshingly over  his  bare  head.     For  some  minutes  he  went 
round  and  round,  faster  and  faster,  without  a  pause.     When  f 
he  stopped  at  last,  it  was  in  front  of  the  cottage.     He  lifted  ^ 
his  head  slowlj^,  and  looked  up  at  the  dim  light  in  the  window  ! 
of  Anne's  room.  * 

"How  ?"  he  said  to  himself     "  That's  the  question.    How  ?"  J 

He  went  indoors  again,  and  rang  the  bell.     The  servant-girl  %\ 
who  answered  it  started  back  at  the  sight  of  him.     His  florid 
color  was  all  gone.     His  eyes  looked  at  her  without  appearing 
to  see  her.     The  perspiration  was  standing  on  his  forehead  in 
great  heavy  drops. 

"  Are  you  ill,  sir  ?"  said  the  girl. 

He  told  her,  with  an  oath,  to  hold  her  tongue  and  bring  the  |i 
brandy.     When  she  entered  the  room  for  the  second  time,  he 
was  standing  with  his  back  to  her,  looking  out  at  the  night. 
He  never  moved  when  she  put  the  bottle  on  the  table.     She  ''l 
heard  him  muttering  as  if  he  was  talking  to  himself. 


MAN    AND    WIFE.  485 

The  same  difficulty  which  had  been  present  to  his  mind  in 
secret  under  Anne's  window  was  present  to  his  mind  still. 
How  ?     That  was  the  problem  to  solve.     How? 
He  turned  to  the  brandy,  and  took  counsel  of  that. 


CHAPTER  THE  FIFTIETH. 

THE    MORNING. 


When  does  the  vain  regret  find  its  keenest  sting  ?  When 
is  the  doubtful  future  blackened  by  its  darkest  cloud  ?  When 
is  life  least  worth  having,  and  death  oftenest  at  the  bedside  ? 
[n  the  terrible  morning  hours,  when  the  sun  is  rising  in  its 
glory,  and  the  bii'ds  are  singing  in  the  stillness  of  the  new- 
born day. 

Anne  woke  in  the  strange  bed,  and  looked  round  her,  by  the 
light  of  the  new  morning,  at  the  strange  room. 

The  rain  had  all  fallen  in  the  night.  The  sun  was  master 
n  the  clear  autumn  sky.  She  rose,  and  opened  the  window. 
The  fresh  morning  air,  keen  and  fragrant,  filled  the  room.  Far 
ind  near,  the  same  bright  stillness  possessed  the  view.  She 
Stood  at  the  window  looking  out.  Her  mind  was  clear  again 
— she  could  think,  she  could  feel;  she  could  face  the  one  last 
pestion  M'hich  the  merciless  morning  now  forced  on  her — How 
ivill  it  end  ? 

Was  there  any  hope  ? — hope,  for  instance,  in  what  she  might 
lo  for  herself  What  can  a  married  woman  do  for  herself? 
She  can  make  her  misery  public — provided  it  be  misery  of  a 
sertain  kind — and  can  reckon  single-handed  with  Society  whep 
jhe  has  done  it.     Nothing  more. 

Was  there  hope  in  what  others  might  do  for  her  ?  Blanche 
night  write  to  hei' — might  even  come  and  see  her — if  her  hus- 
band allowed  it ;  and  that  was  all.  Sir  Patrick  had  pressed 
ler  hand  at  parting,  and  had  told  her  to  rely  on  him.  He  was 
he  firmest,  the  truest  of  friends.  But  what  could  he  do  ? 
?here  were  outrages  which  her  husband  was  privileged  to 
ommit,  under  the  sanction  of  marriage,  at  the  bare  thought 
f  which  her  blood  ran  cold.  Could  Sir  Patrick  protect  her  ? 
Absurd !  Law  and  Society  armed  her  husband  with  his  con- 
ugal  rights.  Law  and  Society  had  but  one  answer  to  give, 
fshe  appealed  to  them — You  are  his  wife. 

No  hope  in  herself;  no  hope  in  her  friends;  no  hope  any- 
where on  earth.  Nothing  to  be  done  but  to  wait  for  the  end 
-with  faith  in  the  Divine  Mercy ;  with  faith  in  the  better 
rorld. 


486  MAN    AND    WIFE. 

She  took  out  of  her  trunk  a  little  book  of  Prayers  and  Med- 
itations— worn  with  much  use — which  had  once  belonged  to 
her  mother.  She  sat  by  the  window  reading  it.  Now  and 
then  she  looked  up  from  it — thinking.  The  parallel  between 
her  mother's  position  and  her  own  position  was  now  complete. 
Both  married  to  husbands  who  hated  them ;  to  husbands 
whose  interests  pointed  to  mercenary  alliances  with  other 
women ;  to  husbands  whose  one  want  and  one  purpose  was  to 
be  free  from  their  wives.  Strange,  what  different  ways  had 
led  mother  and  daughter  both  to  the  same  fate  !  Would  the 
parallel  hold  to  the  end  ?  "  Shall  I  die,"  she  wondered,  think- 
ing of  her  mother's  last  moments,  "  in  Blanche's  arms  ?" 

The  time  had  passed  unheeded.  The  morning  movement  in 
the  house  had  failed  to  catch  her  ear.  She  was  first  called  out 
of  herself  to  the  sense  of  the  present  and  passing  events  by  the 
voice  of  the  servant-girl  outside  the  door. 

"  The  master  wants  you,  ma'am,  down  stairs." 

She  rose  instantly,  and  put  away  the  little  book. 

"  Is  that  all  the  message  ?"  she  asked,  opening  the  door. 

"  Yes,  ma'am." 

She  followed  the  gii'l  down  stairs ;  recalling  to  her  memory 
the  strange  words  addressed  to  her  by  Geoffrey,  in  the  pres- 
ence of  the  servants,  on  the  evening  before.  Was  she  now 
to  know  what  those  words  really  meant  ?  The  doubt  would 
Boon  be  set  at  rest.  "  Be  the  trial  what  it  may,"  she  thought 
to  herself,  "  let  me  bear  it  as  my  mother  would  have  borne  it." 

The  servant  opened  the  door  of  the  dining-room.  Break* 
fast  was  on  the  table.  Geoffrey  was  standing  at  the  window. 
Hester  Dethridge  was  waiting,  posted  near  the  door.  He 
came  forward — with  the  nearest  approach  to  gentleness  in  his 
manner  which  she  had  ever  yet  seen  in  it — he  came  forward^ 
with  a  set  smile  on  his  lips,  and  offered  her  his  hand  ! 

She  had  entered  the  room,  prepared  (as  she  believed)  for 
any  thing  that  could  happen.  She  was  not  prepared  for  thia 
She  stood  speechless,  looking  at  him. 

After  one  glance  at  her,  when  she  came  in,  Hester  Dethridge 
looked  at  him,  too — and  from  that  moment  never  looked  away 
again,  as  long  as  Anne  remained  in  the  room. 

He  broke  the  silence — in  a  voice  that  was  not  like  his  own ; 
with  a  furtive  restraint  in  his  manner  which  she  had  never  no- 
ticed in  it  before. 

"Won't  you  shake  hands  with  your  husband,"  he  asked, 
"  when  your  husband  asks  you  ?" 

She  mechanically  put  her  hand  in  his.  He  dropped  it  in- 
stantly, with  a  start.  "  God  !  how  cold  !"  he  exclaimed.  His 
own  hand  was  burning  hot,  and  shook  incessantly. 


MAN   AND    WIFE.  487 

He  pointed  to  a  chair  at  the  head  of  the  table. 

"  Will  you  make  the  tea?"  he  asked. 

She  had  given  him  her  hand  mechanically ;  she  advanced  a 
step  mechanically — and  then  stopped. 

"Would  you  prefer  breakfasting  by  yourself?"  he  said. 

"If  you  please,"  she  answered,  faintly. 

"Wait  a  minute.     I  have  something  to  say  before  you  go." 

She  waited.     He   considered  with  himself;   consulting  his 
memory — visibly,  unmistakably,  consulting  it  before  he  spoke 
1 1  again, 

"I  have  had  the  night  to  think  in,"  he  said.  "The  night 
has  made  a  new  man  of  me.  I  beg  your  pardon  for  what  I 
said  yesterday.  I  was  not  myself  yesterday.  I  talked  non- 
sense yesterday.  Please  to  forget  it,  and  forgive  it.  I  wish 
to  turn  over  a  new  leaf,  and  make  amends — make  amends  for 
imy  past  conduct.  It  shall  be  my  endeavor  to  be  a  good  hus- 
band. In  the  presence  of  Mrs.  Dethridge,  I  request  you  to 
give  me  a  chance.  I  won't  force  your  inclinations.  We  are 
married — what's  the  use  of  regretting  it?  Stay  here,  as  you 
said  yesterday,  on  your  own  terms.  I  wish  to  make  it  up.  In 
the  presence  of  Mrs.  Dethridge,  I  say  I  wish  to  make  it  up.  I 
'  won't  detain  you.    Irequest  you  to  thinkof  it.    Good-morning." 

He  said  those  extraordinary  words  like  a  slow  boy  saying  a 
I  hard  lesson — his  eyes  on  the  ground,  his  fingers  restlessly  fas- 
.1  tening  and  unfastening  a  button  on  his  waistcoat. 

Anne   left  the  room.     In  the  passage  she  was  obliged  to 
,  wait,  and  support  herself  against  the  wall.     His  unnatural  po- 
liteness was  horrible  ;  his  carefully  asserted  repentance  chilled 
her  to  the  soul  with  dread.     She  had  never  felt — in  the  time 
of  his  fiercest  anger  and  his  foulest  language — the  unutterable 
horror  of  him  that  she  felt  now. 
'      Hester  Dethridge  came  out,  closing  the  door  behind  her. 
:  She  looked  attentively  at  Anne — then  wrote  on  her  slate,  and 
held  it  out,  with  these  words  on  it: 

"  Do  you  believe  him  ?" 

Anne  pushed  the  slate  away,  and  ran  up  stairs.  She  fasten- 
ed the  door,  and  sank  into  a  chair. 

"  He  is  plotting  something  against  me,"  she  said  to  herself. 
"  What  ?" 

A  sickening,  physical  sense  of  dread — entirely  new  in  her 
experience  of  herself—made  her  shrink  from  piarsuing  the  ques- 
tion. The  sinking  at  her  heart  turned  her  faint.  She  went  to 
get  the  air  at  the  open  window. 

At  the  same  moment  there  was  a  ring  at  the  gate-bell.  Sus- 
picious of  any  thing  and  everything,  she  felt  a  sudden  distrust 
of  letting  herself  be  seen.  She  drew  back  behind  the  curtain 
and  looked  out. 


488  MAN    AND   WIFE. 

A  man-servant,  in  livery,  was  let  in.  He  had  a  letter  in  hia 
hand.  He  said  to  the  girl  as  he  passed  Anne's  window,  "  I 
come  from  Lady  Holchester;  I  must  see  Mr.  Delamayn  in- 
stantly." 

They  went  in.  There  was  an  interval.  The  footman  re-ap- 
peared, leaving  the  place.  There  was  another  interval.  Then 
there  came  a  knock  at  the  door.  Anne  hesitated.  The  knock 
was  repeated,  and  the  dumb  murmuring  of  Hester  Dethridge 
was  heard  outside.     Anne  opened  the  door. 

Hester  came  in  with  the  breakfast,-  She  pointed  to  a  letter, 
among  other  things,  on  the  tray.  It  was  addressed  to  Anne, 
in  Geoffrey's  handwriting,  and  it  contained  these  words  : 

"My  father  died  yesterday.  Write  your  orders  for  your 
mourning.  The  boy  will  take  them.  You  are  not  to  trouble 
yourself  to  go  to  London.  Somebody  is  to  come  here  to  you 
from  the  shop." 

Anne  dropped  the  paper  on  her  lap  without  looking  up. 
At  the  same  moment  Hester  Dethridge's  slate  was  passed 
stealthily  between  her  eyes  and  the  note — with  these  words 
traced  on  it.  "His  mother  is  coming  to-day.  His  brother 
has  been  telegraphed  from  Scotland.  He  was  drunk  last  night. 
He's  drinking  again.  I  know  what  that  means.  Look  out, 
missus — look  out !" 

Anne  signed  to  her  to  leave  the  room.  She  went  out,  pull- 
ing the  door  to,  but  not  closing  it  behind  her. 

There  was  another  ring  at  the  gate-bell.  Once  moi'e  Anne 
went  to  the  window.  Only  the  lad  this  time — arriving  to 
take  his  orders  for  the  day.  He  had  barely  entered  the  gar- 
den when  he  was  followed  by  the  postman  with  letters.  In 
a  minute  more  Geoffrey's  voice  was  heard  in  the  passage,  and 
Geoffrey's  heavy  step  ascended  the  wooden  stairs.  Anne  hur- 
ried across  the  room  to  draw  the  bolts.  Geoffrey  met  her  be- 
fore she  could  close  the  door. 

"A  letter  for  you,"  he  said,  keeping  scrupulously  out  of  the 
room.  "  I  don't  wish  to  force  your  inclinations  —  I  only  re- 
quest you  to  tell  me  who  it's  from." 

His  manner  was  as  carefully  subdued  as  ever.  But  the  un- 
acknowledged distrust  in  him  (when  he  looked  at  her)  betrayed 
itself  in  his  eye. 

She  glanced  at  the  handwriting  on  the  address. 

"  From  Blanche,"  she  answered. 

He  softly  put  his  foot  between  the  door  and  the  post — and 
waited  until  she  had  opened  and  read  Blanche's  letter. 

"  May  I  see  it  ?"  he  asked  —  and  put  in  his  hand  for  it 
through  the  door. 

The  spirit  in  Anne  which  would  once  have  resisted  him  was 
dead  in  her  now.     She  handed  him  the  open  letter. 


MAN   AND   WIFB.  489 

It  was  very  short.  Excepting  some  brief  expressions  of 
I  fondness,  it  was  studiously  confined  to  stating  the  purpose  for 
wliich  it  had  been  written.  Blanche  proposed  to  visit  Anne 
!that  afternoon,  accompanied  by  her  uncle;  sh«  sent  word  before- 
1  hand,  to  make  sure  of  finding  Anne  at  home.  That  was  all.  The 
I  letter  had  evidently  been  written  under  Sir  Patrick's  advice. 

Geoifrej'-  handed  it  back,  after  first  waiting  a  moment  to 
think. 

"My  father  died  yesterday,"  he  said.  "My  wife  can't  re- 
ceive visitors  before  he  is  buried.  I  don't  wish  to  force  your 
inclinations.  I  only  say  I  can't  let  visitors  in  here  before  the 
funeral  —  except  my  own  family.  Send  a  note  down  stairs. 
The  lad  will  take  it  to  your  friend  when  he  goes  to  London." 
With  those  words,  he  left  her. 

An  appeal  to  the  proprieties  of  life,  in  the  mouth  of  Geoffrey 
IDelamayn,  could  only  mean  one  of  two  things.  Either  he  had 
spoken  in  brutal  mockery  —  or  he  had  spoken  with  some  ul- 
terior object  in  view.  Had  he  seized  on  the  event  of  his  fa- 
thei-'s  death  as  a  pretext  for  isolating  his  wife  from  all  com- 
munication with  the  outer  world  '?  Were  there  reasons,  which 
had  not  yet  asserted  themselves,  for  his  dreading  the  result, 
if  he  allowed  Anne  to  communicate  with  her  friends? 

The  hour  wore  on,  and  Hester  Dethridge  appeared  again. 
The  lad  was  waiting  for  Anne's  orders  for  her  mourning,  and 
for  her  note  to  Mrs.  Arnold  Bi'inkworth. 

Anne  wrote  the  orders  and  the  note.  Once  more  the  horri- 
ble slate  appeared  when  she  had  done,  between  the  writing- 
paper  and  her  eyes,  with  the  hard  lines  of  warning  pitilessly 
traced  on  it.  "  He  has  locked  the  gate.  When  there's  a  ring 
we  are  to  come  to  him  for  the  key.  He  has  written  to  a  wom- 
an. Name  outside  the  letter,  Mrs.  Glenarm.  He  has  had  more 
brandy.     Like  my  husband.     Mind  yourself." 

The  one  way  out  of  the  high  walls  all  round  the  cottage 
locked.  Friends  forbidden  to  see  her.  Solitary  imprisonment, 
with  her  husband  for  a  jailer.  Before  she  had  been  four-and- 
twenty  hours  in  the  cottage  it  had  come  to  that.  And  what 
was  to  follow? 

She  went  back  mechanically  to  the  window.  The  sight  of 
the  outer  world,  the  occasional  view  of  a  passing  vehicle,  help- 
ed to  sustain  her. 

The  lad  appeared  in  the  front  garden  departing  to  perform 
his  errand  to  London.  Geoffrey  went  with  him  to  open  the 
gate,  and  called  after  him,  as  he  passed  through  it,  "  Don't  for- 
get the  books !" 

The  "  books  ?"  What  "  books  ?"  Who  wanted  them  ?  The 
slightest  thing  now  roused  Anne's  suspicion.  For  hours  af- 
terward the  books  haunted  her  mind. 


490  MAN    AND    WIFE. 

He  secured  the  gate  and  came  back  again.  He  stopped  un- 
der Anne's  window  and  called  to  her.  She  showed  herself. 
"When  you  want  air  and  exercise,"  he  said,  "  the  back  garden 
is  at  your  own  disposal."  He  put  the  key  of  the  gate  in  his 
pocket  and  returned  to  the  house. 

After  some  hesitation,  Anne  decided  on  taking  him  at  his 
word.  In  her  state  of  suspense,  to  remain  within  the  four 
walls  of  the  bedroom  was  unendurable.  If  some  lurking  snare 
lay  hid  under  the  fair-sounding  proposal  which  Geoffrey  had 
made,  it  was  less  repellent  to  her  boldly  to  prove  what  it 
might  be  than  to  wait  pondering  over  it  with  her  mind  in  the 
dark.     She  piit  on  her  hat  and  went  down  into  the  garden. 

Nothing  happened  out  of  the  common.  Wherever  he  was, 
he  never  showed  himself  She  wandered  up  and  down,  keep- 
ing on  the  side  of  the  garden  which  was  farthest  from  the  din- 
ing-room window.  To  a  woman,  escape  from  the  place  was 
simply  impossible.  Setting  out  of  the  question  the  height  of 
the  walls,  they  were  armed  at  the  top  with  a  thick  setting  of 
jagged  broken  glass.  A  small  back  door  in  the  end  wall  (in- 
tended probably  for  the  gardener's  use)  was  bolted  and  locked 
— the  key  having  been  taken  out.  There  was  not  a  house 
neai-.  The  lands  of  the  local  growers  of  vegetables  surround- 
ed the  garden  on  all  sides.  In  the  nineteenth  century,  and  in 
the  immediate  neighborhood  of  a  great  metropolis,  Anne  was 
as  absolutely  isolated  from  all  contact  with  the  humanity 
around  her  as  if  she  lay  in  her  grave. 

After  the  lapse  of  half  an  hour,  the  silence  was  broken  by  a 
noise  of  carriage-wheels  on  the  public  road  in  front,  and  a  ring 
at  the  bell.  Anne  kept  close  to  the  cottage,  at  the  back ;  de- 
termined, if  a  chance  offered,  on  speaking  to  the  visitor,  who- 
ever the  visitor  might  be. 

She  heard  voices  in  the  dining-room  through  the  open  win- 
dow— Geoffrey's  voice  and  the  voice  of  a  woman.  Who  was 
the  woman  ?  Not  Mrs.  Glenarm,  surely  ?  After  a  while  the 
visitor's  voice  was  suddenly  raised.  "  Where  is  she  ?"  it  said, 
"  I  wish  to  see  her."  Anne  instantly  advanced  to  the  back- 
door of  the  house,  and  found  herself  face  to  face  with  a  lady 
who  was  a  total  stranger  to  her. 

"Are  you  my  son's  wife?"  asked  the  lady. 

"  I  am  your  son's  prisoner,"  Anne  answered. 

Lady  Holchester's  pale  face  turned  paler  still.  It  was  plain 
that  Anne's  reply  had  confirmed  some  doubt  in  the  mother's 
mind  which  had  been  already  suggested  to  it  by  the  son. 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?"  she  asked,  in  a  whisper. 

Geoffrey's  heavy  footsteps  crossed  the  dining-room.  There 
was  no  time  to  explain.     Anne  whispered  back  : 

"  Tell  my  friends  what  I  have  told  you." 


MAN  AND   WIFE.  491 

Geoffrey  appeared  at  the  dining-room  door, 

"  Name  one  of  your  friends,"  said  Lady  Holchester. 

"Sir  Patrick  Lundie." 

Geoffrey  heard  the  answer.  "  What  about  Sir  Patrick  Lun- 
die?"  he  asked. 

" I  wish  to  see  Sir  Patrick  Lundie,"  said  his  mother.  "And 
your  wife  can  tell  me  where  to  find  him." 

Anne  instantly  understood  that  Lady  Holchester  would  com- 
municate with  Sir  Patrick.  She  mentioned  his  London  address. 
Lady  Holchester  turned  to  leave  the  cottage.  Her  son  stopped 
her. 

"Let's  set  things  straight,"  he  said,  "before  you  go.  My 
mother,"  he  went  on,  addressing  himself  to  Anne,  "  don't  think 
there's  much  chance  for  us  two  of  living  comfortably  together. 
Bear  witness  to  the  truth— will  you  ?  What  did  I  tell  you  at 
breakfast-time?  Didn't  I  say  it  should  be  my  endeavor  to 
make  you  a  good  husband  ?  Didn't  I  say — in  Mrs.  Dethridge's 
presence — I  wanted  to  make  it  up  ?"  He  waited  until  Anne 
had  answered  in  the  affirmative,  and  then  appealed  to  his 
mother.     "  Well  ?  what  do  you  think  now  ?" 

Lady  Holchester  declined  to  reveal  what  she  thought.  "  You 
shall  see  me,  or  hear  from  me,  this  evening,"  she  said  to  Anne. 
Geoffrey  attempted  to  repeat  his  unanswered  question.  His 
mother  looked  at  him.  His  eyes  instantly  dropped  before  hers. 
She  gravely  bent  her  head  to  Anne,  and  drew  her  veil.  Her 
son  followed  her  out  in  silence  to  the  gate. 

Anne  returned  to  her  room,  sustained  by  the  first  sense  of 
relief  which  she  had  felt  since  the  morning.  "  His  mother  is 
alarmed,"  she  said  to  herself.     "A  change  will  come." 

A  change  teas  to  come — with  the  coming  night. 


CHAPTER  THE  FIFTY-FmST. 

THE    PROPOSAL. 

Toward  sunset,  Lady  Holchester's  carriage  drew  up  before 
the  gate  of  the  cottage. 

Three  persons  occupied  the  carriage :  Lady  Holchester,  her 
eldest  son  (now  Lord  Holchester),  and  Sir  Patrick  Lundie. 

"  Will  you  wait  in  the  carriage.  Sir  Patrick  ?"  said  Julius. 
"  Or  will  you  come  in  ?" 

"  I  will  wait.  If  I  can  be  of  the  least  use  to  her,  send  for  me 
instantly.  In  the  mean  time,  don't  forget  to  make  the  stipula- 
tion which  I  have  suggested.  It  is  the  one  certain  way  of 
putting  your  brother's  real  feeling  in  this  matter  to  the  test." 


492  MAN    AND    WIFE. 

The  servant  had  rung  the  beil  wiihout  producing  any  result. 
He  rang  again.     Lady  Holchester  put  a  question  to  Sir  Patrick. 

"If  I  have  an  opportunity  of  speaking  to  ray  son's  wife 
alone,"  she  said,  "  have  you  any  message  to  give  ?" 

Sir  Patrick  produced  a  little  note. 

"  May  I  appeal  to  your  ladyship's  kindness  to  give  her  this  ?" 
The  gate  was  opened  by  the  servant-girl,  as  Lady  Holchester 
took  the  note.  "  Remember,"  reiterated  Sir  Patrick,  earnestly, 
"  if  I  can  be  of  the  smallest  service  to  hei- — don't  think  of  my 
position  with  Mr.  Delamayn.     Send  for  me  at  once." 

Julius  and  his  mother  were  conducted  into  the  drawing- 
room.  The  girl  informed  them  that  her  master  had  gone  up 
stairs  to  lie  down,  and  that  he  would  be  with  them  immediately. 

Both  mother  and  son  were  too  anxious  to  speak.  Julius 
wandered  uneasily  about  the  room.  Some  books  attracted  his 
notice  on  a  table  in  the  corner — four  dirty,  greasy  volumes, 
with  a  slip  of  paper  projecting  from  the  leaves  of  one  of  them, 
and  containing  this  inscription,  "  With  Mr.  Perry's  respects." 
Julius  opened  the  volume.  It  was  the  ghastly  popular  record 
of  Criminal  Trials  in  England,  called  the  Newgate  Calendar. 
Julius  showed  it  to  his  mother. 

"  Geoffrey's  taste  in  literature !"  he  said,  with  a  faint  smile. 

Lady  Holchester  signed  to  him  to  put  the  book  back. 

"  You  have  seen  Geoffrey's  wife  already — have  you  not  ?" 
she  asked. 

There  was  no  contempt  now  in  her  tone  when  she  referred  to 
Anne.  The  impression  produced  on  her  by  her  visit  to  the 
cottage,  earlier  in  the  day,  associated  Geoffrey's  wife  with 
family  anxieties  of  no  trivial  kind.  She  might  still  (for  Mrs. 
Glenarm's  sake)  be  a  woman  to  be  disliked — but  she  was  no 
longer  a  woman  to  be  despised. 

"  I  saw  her  when  she  came  to  Swanhaven,"  said  Julius.  "  I 
agree  with  Sir  Patrick  in  thinking  her  a  veiy  interesting  person." 

"  What  did  Sir  Patrick  say  to  you  about  Geoffrey  this  after- 
noon— while  I  was  out  of  the  room  ?" 

"  Only  what  he  said  to  you.  He  thought  their  position 
toward  each  other  here  a  very  deplorable  one.  He  considered 
that  the  reasons  were  serious  for  our  interfering  immediately." 

"Sir  Patrick's  own  opinion,  Julius,  goes  further  than  that." 

"  He  has  not  acknowledged  it,  tliat  I  know  of" 

"  How  can  he  acknowledge  it — to  us  ?" 

The  door  opened,  and  Geoffre}^  entered  the  room. 

Julius  eyed  him  closely  as  they  shook  hands.  His  eyes  were 
bloodshot ;  his  face  was  flushed  ;  his  utterance  was  thick — the 
look  of  him  was  the  look  of  a  man  who  had  been  drinking 
hard. 

"Well,"  he  said  to  his  mother,  "what  brings  you  back?" 


MAN    AND    WIFE.  493 

"Julius  has  a  proposal  to  make  to  you,"  Lady  Holchester 
answered.     "  I  approve  of  it ;  and  I  have  come  with  him." 

Geoffrey  turned  to  his  brother, 

"  What  can  a  rich  man  like  you  want  of  a  poor  devil  like 
me  ?"  he  asked. 

"  I  want  to  do  you  justice,  Geoffrey — if  you  will  help  me,  by 
meeting  me  half-way.  Our  mother  has  told  you  about  the 
will  ?" 

"  I'm  not  down  for  a  half-penny  in  the  will.  I  expected  as 
much.     Go  on." 

"  You  are  wrong — you  are  down  in  it.  There  is  liberal  pro- 
vision made  for  you  in  a  codicil.  Unhappily,  my  father  died 
without  signing  it.  It  is  needless  to  say  that  I  consider  it  bind- 
ing on  me  for  all  that.  I  am  ready  to  do  for  you  what  your 
father  would  have  done  for  you ;  and  I  only  ask  for  one  con- 
cession in  return." 

"  What  may  that  be  ?" 

"  You  are  living  here  very  unhappily,  Geoffrey,  with  your 
wife." 

"  Who  says  so  ?     I  don't,  for  one." 

Julius  laid  his  hand  kindly  on  his  brother's  arm. 

"Don't  trifle  with  such  a  serious  matter  as  this,"  he  said. 
"  Your  marriage  is,  in  every  sense  of  the  word,  a  misfortune — 
not  only  to  you  but  to  your  wife.  It  is  impossible  that  you 
can  live  together.  I  have  come  here  to  ask  you  to  consent  to 
a  separation.  Do  that,  and  the  provision  made  for  you  in  the 
unsigned  codicil  is  yours.     What  do  you  say  ?" 

Geoffrey  shook  his  brother's  hand  off  his  arm. 

"  I  say — No  !"  he  answered. 

Lady  Holchester  interfered  for  the  first  time. 

"  Your  brother's  generous  offer  deserves  a  better  answer  than 
that,"  she  said. 

"  My  answer,"  reiterated  Geoffrey,  "  is — No !" 

He  sat  between  them  with  his  clenched  fists  resting  on  his 
knees  —  absolutely  impenetrable  to  any  thing  that  either  of 
them  could  say. 

"  In  your  situation,"  said  Julius,  "a  refusal  is  sheer  madness. 
I  won't  accept  it." 

"  Do  as  you  like  about  that.  My  mind's  made  up.  I  won't 
let  my  wife  be  taken  away  from  me.     Here  she  stays." 

The  brutal  tone  in  which  he  had  made  that  reply  roused  Lady 
Holchester's  indignation. 

"  Take  care  !"  she  said.  "  You  are  not  only  behaving  with 
the  grossest  ingratitude  toward  your  brother — you  are  forcing 
a  suspicion  into  your  mother's  mind.  You  have  some  motive 
that  you  are  hiding  from  us," 

He  turned  on  his  mother  with  a  sudden  ferocity  which  made 


494  MAN    AND    WIFE, 

Julius  spring  to  his  feet.  The  next  instant  his  eyes  were  on 
the  ground,  and  the  devil  that  possessed  hini  was  quiet  again. 

"  Some  motive  I'm  hiding  from  you  ?"  he  repeated,  with  his 
head  down,  and  his  utterance  thicker  than  ever.  "  I'm  ready 
to  have  my  motive  posted  all  over  London,  if  you  like.  I'm 
fond  of  her." 

He  looked  up  as  he  said  the  last  words.  Lady  Holchester 
turned  away  her  head — recoiling  from  her  own  son.  So  over- 
whelming was  the  shock  inflicted  on  her  that  even  the  strong- 
ly rooted  prejudice  which  ]\Irs.  Glenarm  had  implanted  in  her 
mind  yielded  to  it.    At  that  moment  she  absolutely  pitied  Anne ! 

"  Poor  creature  !"  said  Lady  Holchester. 

He  took  instant  offense  at  those  two  words.  "  I  won't  have 
my  wife  pitied  by  any  body."  With  that  reply  he  dashed 
into  the  passage,  and  called  out,  "Anne  !  come  down  !" 

Her  soft  voice  answered  ;  her  light  footfall  was  heard  on  the 
stairs.  She  came  into  the  room.  Julius  advanced,  took  her 
hand,  and  held  it  kindly  in  his.  "  We  are  having  a  little  fam- 
ily discussion,"  he  said,  trying  to  give  her  confidence.  "And 
Geoffrey  is  getting  hot  over  it,  as  usual." 

Geoffrey  appealed  sternly  to  his  mother. 

"  Look  at  her !"  he  said.  "  Is  she  starved  ?  Is  she  in  rags  ? 
Is  she  covered  with  bruises  ?"  He  turned  to  Anne.  "  They 
have  come  here  to  propose  a  separation.  They  both  believe  I 
hate  you.  I  don't  hate  you.  I'm  a  good  Christian.  I  owe  it 
to  you  that  I'm  cut  out  of  my  father's  will.  I  forgive  you  that. 
I  owe  it  to  you  that  I've  lost  the  chance  of  marrying  a  woman 
with  ten  thousand  a  year,  I  forgive  you  that.  I'm  not  a  man 
who  does  things  by  halves.  I  said  it  should  be  my  endeavor 
to  make  you  a  good  husband.  I  said  it  was  my  wish  to  make 
it  up.  Well !  I  am  as  good  as  my  word.  And  what's  the  con- 
sequence? I  am  insulted.  My  mother  comes  here,  and  my 
brother  comes  here — and  they  offer  me  money  to  part  from  you. 
Money  be  hanged  !  I'll  be  beholden  to  nobody.  I'll  get  my 
own  living.  Shame  on  the  people  who  interfere  between  man 
and  wife  !     Shame  ! — that's  what  I  say — shame  !" 

Anne  looked  for  an  explanation  from  her  husband  to  her  hus- 
band's mother. 

"Have  you  proposed  a  separation  between  us?"  she  asked. 

"  Yes — on  terms  of  the  utmost  advantage  to  my  son ;  ar- 
ranged with  every  possible  consideration  toward  you.  Is  there 
any  objection  on  your  side?" 

"  Oh,  Lady  Holchester  !  is  it  necessary  to  ask  me  ?  What 
does  he  say  ?" 

"  He  has  refused." 

"  Refused  !" 

"  Yes,"  said  Geoffrey.     "  I  don't  go  back  from  my  word  ;  I 


MAN    AND    WIFE.  495 

Stick  to  what  T  said  this  morning.  It's  my  endeavor  to  make 
you  a  good  husband.  It's  my  wish  to  make  it  up."  He  paused, 
and  then  added  his  last  leason  :  "  I'm  fond  of  you." 

Their  eyes  met  as  he  said  it  to  her.  Julius  felt  Anne's  hand 
suddenly  tighten  round  his.  The  desperate  grasp  of  the  frail 
cold  fingers,  the  imploring  terror  in  the  gentle  sensitive  face 
as  it  slowly  turned  his  way,  said  to  him  as  if  in  words, "  Don't 
leave  me  friendless  to-night !" 

"If  you  both  stop  here  till  doomsday,"  said  Geoffrey,  "you'll 
get  nothing  more  out  of  me.     You  have  had  my  reply." 

With  that  he  seated  himself  doggedly  in  a  corner  of  the  room; 
waiting — ostentatiously  waiting' — for  his  mother  and  his  broth- 
er to  take  their  leave.  The  position  was  serious.  To  argue 
the  matter  with  him  that  night  was  hopeless.  To  invite  Sir 
Patrick's  interference  would  only  be  to  provoke  his  savage  tem- 
per to  a  new  outbreak.  On  the  other  hand,  to  leave  the  help- 
less woman,  after  what  had  passed,  without  another  effort  to  be- 
friend her,  was,  in  her  situation,  an  act  of  downright  inhuman- 
ity, and  nothing  less.  Julius  took  the  one  way  out  of  the  diffi- 
culty that  was  left — the  one  way  worthy  of  him  as  a  compas- 
sionate and  an  honorable  man, 

"  We  will  drop  it  for  to-night,  Geoffrey,"  he  said.  "  But  I 
am  not  the  less  resolved,  in  spite  of  all  that  you  have  said,  to 
return  to  the  subject  to-morrow.  It  would  save  me  some  in- 
convenience— a  second  journey  here  from  town,  and  then  going 
back  again  to  my  engagements — if  I  staid  wuth  you  to-night. 
Can  you  give  me  a  bed  ?" 

A  look  flashed  on  him  from  Anne,  which  thanked  him  as  no 
words  could  have  thanked  him. 

"  Give  you  a  bed  ?"  repeated  Geoffrey.  He  checked  himself, 
on  the  point  of  refusing.  His  mother  was  watching  him  ;  his 
wife  was  watching  him  —  and  his  wife  knew  that  the  room 
above  them  was  a  room  to  spare.  "All  right !"  he  resumed  in 
another  tone,  with  his  eye  on  his  mother.  "  Thei-e's  an  empty 
room  up  stairs.  Have  it,  if  you  like.  You  w^on't  find  I've 
changed  my  mind  to-morrow  ;  but  that's  your  look-out.  Stop 
here,  if  the  fancy  takes  you.  I've  no  objection.  It  don't  mat- 
ter to  Me. — Will  you  trust  his  lordship  under  my  roof?"  he  add- 
ed, addressing  his  mother.  "  I  might  have  some  motive  that 
I'm  hiding  fiom  you,  you  know  !"  Without  waiting  for  an  an- 
swer, he  turned  to  Anne.  "  Go  and  tell  old  Dummy  to  put  the 
sheets  on  the  bed.  Say  there's  a  live  lord  in  the  house — she's 
to  send  in  something  devilish  good  for  supper !" 

He  burst  fiercely  into  a  forced  laugh.  Lady  Holchester 
rose  at  the  moment  when  Anne  was  leaving  the  room. 

"I  shall  not  be  here  when  you  return,"  she  said.  "Let  me 
bid  you  good-night." 


496  MAN    AXD    WIFE. 

She  shook  hands  with  Anne — giving  her  Sir  Patrick's  note, 
unseen,  at  the  same  moment.  Anne  left  the  room.  Without 
addressing  another  word  to  her  second  son,  Lady  Holchester 
beckoned  to  Julius  to  give  her  his  arm.  "  You  have  acted  no- 
bly toward  your  brother,"  she  said  to  him.  "  My  one  comfort 
and  my  one  hope,  Julius,  are  in  you."  They  went  out  togeth- 
er to  the  gate,  Geoffrey  following  them  with  the  key  in  his 
hand.  "  Don't  be  too  anxious,"  Julius  whispered  to  his  moth- 
er. "I  will  keep  the  drink  out  of  his  way  to-night,  and  I 
will  bring  you  a  better  account  of  him  to-morrow.  Explain 
every  thing  to  Sir  Patrick  as  you  go  home."  He  handed  Lady 
Holchester  into  the  carriage,  and  re-entered,  leaving  Geoffrey 
to  lock  the  gate. 

The  brothers  returned  in  silence  to  the  cottage.  Julius  had 
concealed  it  from  his  mother — but  he  was  seriously  uneasy  in 
secret.  Naturally  prone  to  look  at  all  things  on  their  brighter 
side,  he  could  place  no  hopeful  interpretation  on  what  Geoffrey 
had  said  and  done  that  night.  The  conviction  that  he  was  de- 
liberately acting  a  part,  in  his  present  relations  with  his  wife, 
for  some  abominable  purpose  of  his  own,  had  rooted  itself  firm- 
ly in  Julius.  For  the  first  time  in  his  experience  of  his  broth- 
er, the  pecuniary  consideration  was  not  the  uppermost  consid- 
eration in  Geoffrey's  mind. 

They  went  back  into  the  drawing-room. 

"What  will  you  have  to  drink?"  said  Geoffrey. 

"  Nothing." 

"  You  won't  keep  me  company  over  a  drop  of  brandy-and- 
water  ?" 

"  No.     You  have  had  enough  brandy-and-water." 

After  a  moment  of  frowning  self-consideration  in  the  glass, 
Geoffrey  abruptly  agreed  with  Julius.  "  I  look  like  it,"  he 
said.  "  I'll  soon  put  that  right."  He  disappeared,  and  return- 
ed with  a  wet  towel  tied  round  his  head.  "What  will  you 
do  while  the  women  are  getting  your  bed  ready  ?  Liberty 
Hall  here.  Pve  taken  to  cultivating  my  mind — I'm  a  reform- 
ed character,  you  know,  now  I'm  a  married  mac.  You  do 
what  you  like.     I  shall  read." 

He  turned  to  the  side-table ;  and,  producing  the  volumes  of 
the  Newgate  Calendar,  gave  one  to  his  brother.  Julius  hand- 
ed it  back  again. 

"You  won't  cultivate  your  mind,"  he  said,  "  with  such  a 
book  as  that.  Vile  actions,  recorded  in  vile  English,  make  vile 
reading,  Geoffrey,  in  every  sense  of  the  word." 

"  It  will  do  for  me.  I  don't  know  good  English  when  I  see 
it." 

With  that  frank  acknowledgment — to  which  the  great  ma- 
iority  of  his  companions  at  school  and  college  might  have  sub* 


MAN   AND   WIFB.  497 

vicribed  without  doing  the  slightest  injustice  to  the  present 
■otate  of  English  education — Geoffrey  drew  his  chair  to  the  ta- 
ble, and  opened  one  of  the  volumes  of  his  record  of  crime. 

The  evening  newspaper  was  lying  on  the  sofa.  Julius  took 
it  up,  and  seated  himself  opposite  to  his  brother.  He  noticed, 
with  some  surprise,  that  Geoffrey  appeared  to  have  a  special 
object  in  consulting  his  book.  Instead  of  beginning  at  the 
first  page,  he  ran  the  leaves  through  his  fingers,  and  turned 
them  down  at  certain  places  before  he  entered  on  his  reading. 
If  Julius  had  looked  over  his  brother's  shoulder,  instead  of  only 
looking  at  him  across  the  table,  he  would  have  seen  that  Geof^ 
frey  passed  by  all  the  lighter  crimes  reported  in  the  Calendar, 
and  marked  for  his  own  private  reading  the  cases  of  murder 
only. 


CHAPTER  THE  FIFTY-SECOND. 

THE   APPARITION. 

The  night  had  advanced.  It  was  close  on  twelve  o'clock, 
when  Anne  heard  the  servant's  voice,  outside  her  bedroom 
I  door,  asking  leave  to  speak  with  her  for  a  moment. 

"What  is  it?" 

"  The  gentleman  down  stairs  wishes  to  see  you,  ma'am." 

"  Do  you  mean  Mr.  Delamayn's  brother  ?" 

"Yes." 

"  Where  is  Mr.  Delamayn  ?" 

"  Out  in  the  garden,  ma'am." 

Anne  went  down  stairs,  and  found  Julius  alone  in  the  draw- 
ing-room. 

"  I  am  sorry  to  disturb  you,"  he  said.  "  I  am  afraid  Geof- 
!  frey  is  ill.  The  landlady  has  gone  to  bed,  I  am  told — and  I 
t  don't  know  where  to  apply  for  medical  assistance.  Do  you 
know  of  any  doctor  in  the  neighborhood  ?" 

Anne,  like  Julius,  was  a  perfect  stranger  to  the  neighbor- 
hood. She  suggested  making  inquiry  of  the  servant.  On 
speaking  to  the  girl,  it  tui-ned  out  that  she  knew  of  a  medical 
man,  living  within  ten  minutes'  walk  of  the  cottage.  She 
could  give  plain  directions  enabling  any  person  to  find  the 
place — but  she  was  afraid,  at  that  hour  of  the  night  and  in  that 
lonely  neighborhood,  to  go  out  by  herself. 

"  Is  he  seriously  ill  ?"  Anne  asked. 

"He  is  in  such  a  state  of  nervous  irritability,"  said  Julius, 

"  that  he  can't  remain  still  for  two  moments  together  in  the 

same  place.     It  began  with  incessant  restlessness  while  he  was 

reading  here.    I  persuaded  him  to  go  to  bed.     He  couldn't  lie 

32 


498  MAN^    AND    WIFB. 

still  for  an  instant — he  came  down  again,  burning  with  fever, 
and  more  restless  than  ever.  He  is  out  in  the  garden  in  spite 
of  every  thing  I  could  do  to  prevent  liim ;  trying,  as  he  says, 
to  '  run  it  off.'  It  appears  to  be  serious  to  me.  Come  and 
judge  for  yourself" 

He  led  Anne  into  the  next  room,  and,  opening  the  shutter, 
pointed  to  the  garden. 

The  clouds  had  cleared  off;  the  night  was  fine.  The  clear 
starlight  showed  Geoffrey,  stripped  to  his  shirt  and  drawers, 
running  round  and  round  the  garden.  He  apparently  believed 
himself  to  be  contending  at  the  Fulhara  foot-race.  At  times,  as 
the  white  figure  circled  round  and  round  in  the  starlight,  they 
heard  him  cheering  for  "  the  South."  The  slackening  thump 
of  his  feet  on  the  ground,  the  heavier  and  heavier  gasps  in 
which  he  drew  his  breath,  as  he  passed  the  window,  gave 
warning  that  his  strength  was  failing  him.  Exhaustion,  if  it 
led  to  no  worse  consequences,  would  force  him  to  return  to  the 
house.  In  the  state  of  his  brain  at  that  moment,  who  could 
say  what  the  result  might  be,  if  medical  help  was  not  called  in? 

"  I  will  go  for  the  doctor,"  said  Julius,  "  if  you  don't  mind 
ray  leaving  you." 

It  was  impossible  for  Anne  to  set  any  apprehensions  of  her 
own  against  the  plain  necessity  for  summoning  assistance. 
They  found  the  key  of  the  gate  in  the  pocket  of  Geoffrey's 
coat  up  stairs.  Anne  went  with  Julius  to  let  him  out.  "  How 
can  I  thank  you  !"  she  said,  gratefully.  "  What  should  I  have 
done  without  you .'" 

"  I  won't  be  a  moment  longer  than  I  can  help,"  he  answered, 
and  left  her. 

She  secured  the  gate  again,  and  went  back  to  the  cottage. 
The  servant  met  her  at  the  door,  and  proposed  calling  up  Hes- 
ter Dethridge. 

"  We  don't  know  what  the  master  may  do  while  his  broth- 
er's away,"  said  the  girl.  "And  one  more  of  us  isn't  one  too 
many,  when  we  are  only  women  in  the  house." 

"  You  are  quite  right,"  said  Anne.     "  Wake  your  mistress." 

After  ascending  the  stairs,  they  looked  out  into  the  garden, 
through  the  window  at  the  end  of  the  passage  on  the  upper 
floor.  He  was  still  going  round  and  round,  but  very  slowly  : 
his  pace  was  fast  slackening  to  a  walk. 

Anne  went  back  to  her  room,  and  waited  near  the  open  door 
— ready  to  close  and  fasten  it  instantly  if  any  thing  occurred 
to  alarm  her.  "  How  changed  I  am  !"  she  thought  to  herself 
"Every  thing  fiightens  me  now." 

The  inference  was  the  natural  one,  but  not  the  true  one. 
The  change  was  not  in  herself,  but  in  the  situation  in  which 
she  was  placed.     Her  position  during  the  investigation  at  Lady 


MAN    AXD   WIFE.  499 

Lniidi«'s  house  had  tried  her  moral  courage  only.  It  had  ex- 
acted from  her  one  of  those  noble  efforts  of  self-sacrifice  which 
the  hidden  forces  in  a  woman's  nature  are  essentially  capable 
of  making.  Her  position  at  the  cottage  tried  her  physical 
courage :  it  called  on  her  to  rise  superior  to  the  sense  of  actual 
bodily  danger  —  while  that  danger  was  lurking  in  the  dark. 
There,  the  woman's  nature  sank  under  the  stress  laid  on  it — 
there,  her  courage  could  strike  no  root  in  the  strength  of  her 
love — there,  the  animal  instincts  were  the  instincts  appealed 
to  ;  and  the  firmness  wanted  was  the  firmness  of  a  man. 

Hester  Dethridge's  door  opened.  She  walked  straight  into 
Anne's  room. 

The  yellow  clay-cold  color  of  her  face  showed  a  faint  flush 
of  warmth  ;  its  death-like  stillness  was  stirred  by  a  touch  of 
life.  The  stony  eyes,  fixed  as  ever  in  their  gaze,  shone  strange- 
ly with  a  dim  inner  lustre.  Her  gray  hair,  so  neatly  arranged 
at  other  times,  was  in  disorder  under  her  cap.  All  her  move- 
ments Avere  quicker  than  usual.  Something  had  roused  the 
stagnant  vitality  in  the  woman — it  was  working  in  her  mind  ; 
it  was  forcing  itself  outward  into  her  face.  The  servants  at 
Windygates,  in  past  times,  had  seen  these  signs,  and  had 
known  them  for  a  warning  to  leave  Hester  Dethridge  to  her- 
self 

Anne  asked  her  if  she  had  heard  what  had  happened. 

She  bowed  her  head. 

"  I  hope  you  don't  mind  being  disturbed  ?'* 

She  wrote  on  her  slate  :  "I'm  glad  to  be  disturbed.  I  have 
been  dreaming  bad  dreams.  It's  good  for  me  to  be  wakened, 
when  sleep  takes  me  backward  in  my  life.  What's  wrong 
with  you?     Frightened?" 

"  Yes." 

She  wrote  again,  and  pointed  toward  the  garden  with  one 
hand,  while  she  held  the  slate  up  with  the  other :  "  Frightened 
of  him  .^" 

"Terribly  frightened." 

She  wrote  for  the  third  time,  and  offered  the  slate  to  Anne 
with  a  ghastly  smile  :  "I  have  been  through  it  all.  I  know. 
You're  only  at  the  beginning  now.  He'll  put  the  wrinkles  in 
your  face,  and  the  gray  in  your  hair.  There  will  come  a  time 
when  you'll  wish  yourself  dead  and  buried.  You  will  live 
through  it,  for  all  that.     Look  at  Me." 

As  she  read  the  last  three  words,  Anne  heard  the  garden 
door  below  opened  and  banged  to  again.  She  caught  Hester 
Dethridge  by  the  arm,  and  listened.  The  tramp  of  Geoffrey's 
feet,  staggering  heavily  in  the  passage,  gave  token  of  his  ap- 
proach to  the  stairs.  He  was  talking  to  himself,  still  possess- 
ed by  the  delusion  that  he  was  at  the  foot-race.     "Five  to 


600  MAN   AND   WIPE. 

four  on  Delamayn.  Delaraayn's  won.  Three  cheers  for  the 
South,  and  one  cheer  more.  Devilish  long  race.  Night  al- 
ready !     Perry  !  where's  Perry  ?" 

He  advanced,  staggering  from  side  to  side  of  the  passage. 
The  stairs  below  creaked  as  he  set  his  foot  on  them.  Hester 
Dethridge  dragged  herself  free  from  Anne,  advanced,  with  lier 
candle  in  her  hand,  and  threw  open  Geoffrey's  bedroom  door ; 
returned  to  the  head  of  the  stairs ;  and  stood  there,  firm  as  a 
rock,  waiting  for  him.  He  looked  up,  as  he  set  his  foot  on  the 
next  stair,  and  met  the  view  of  Hester's  face,  brightly  illumi- 
nated by  the  candle,  looking  down  at  him.  On  the  instant 
he  stopped,  rooted  to  the  place  on  which  he  stood.  "  Ghost ! 
witch  !  devil !"  he  cried  out,  "  take  your  eyes  off  me !"  He 
shook  his  fist  at  her  furiously,  with  an  oath — sprang  back  into 
the  hall — and  shut  himself  into  the  dining-room  from  the  sight 
of  her.  The  panic  which  had  seized  him  once  already  in  the 
kitchen-garden  at  Windygates,  under  the  eyes  of  the  dumb 
cook,  had  fastened  its  hold  on  him  once  more.  Frightened — 
absolutely  frightened — of  Hester  Dethridge  ! 

The  gate-bell  rang.     Julius  had  returned  with  the  doctor. 

Anne  gave  the  key  to  the  girl  to  let  them  in.  Hester  wrote 
on  her  slate,  as  composedly  as  if  nothing  had  happened : 
"  They'll  find  me  in  the  kitchen,  if  they  want  me.  I  sha'n't 
go  back  to  my  bedroom.  My  bedroom's  full  of  bad  dreams." 
She  descended  the  stairs.  Anne  waited  in  the  upper  passage, 
looking  over  into  the  hall  below.  "  Your  brother  is  in  the 
drawing-room,"  she  called  down  to  Julius.  "  The  landlady  is 
in  the  kitchen,  if  you  want  her."  She  returned  to  her  room, 
and  waited  for  what  might  happen  next. 

After  a  brief  interval  she  heard  the  drawing-room  door 
open,  and  the  voices  of  the  men  outside.  There  seemed  to  be 
some  difiiculty  in  persuading  Geoffrey  to  ascend  the  stairs ;  he 
persisted  in  declaring  that  Hester  Dethridge  was  waiting  for 
him  at  the  top  of  them.  After  a  little  they  persuaded  him 
that  the  way  was  free.  Anne  heard  them  ascend  the  stairs 
and  close  his  bedroom  door. 

Another  and  a  longer  interval  passed  before  the  door  open- 
ed again.  The  doctor  was  going  away.  He  said  his  parting 
words  to  Julius  in  the  passage.  "  Look  in  at  him  from  time 
to  time  through  the  night,  and  give  him  another  dose  of  the 
sedative  mixture  if  he  wakes.  There  is  nothing  to  be  alarmed 
about  in  the  restlessness  and  the  fever.  They  are  only  the 
outward  manifestations  of  some  serious  mischief  hidden  under 
them.  Send  for  the  medical  man  who  has  last  attended  him. 
Knowledge  of  the  patient's  constitution  is  very  important 
knowledge  in  this  case." 

As  Julius  returped  from  letting  the  doctor  out,  Anne  met 


I 


:  MAN"    AND    WIFE.  501 

him  in  the  hall.  She  was  at  once  struck  by  the  worn  look  in 
his  face,  and  by  the  fatigue  which  expressed  itself  in  all  his 
movements. 

"You  want  rest,"  she  said,  "Pray  go  to  your  room.  I 
have  heard  what  the  doctor  said  to  you.  Leave  it  to  the 
landlady  and  to  me  to  sit  up." 

Julius  owned  that  he  had  been  traveling  from  Scotland  dur- 
ing the  previous  night.  But  he  was  unwilling  to  abandon  the 
responsibility  of  watching  his  brother.  "  You  are  not  strong 
enough,  I  am  sure,  to  take  my  place,"  he  said,  kindly.  "And 
Geoffrey  has  some  unreasoning  horror  of  the  landlady,  which 
makes  it  very  undesirable  that  he  should  see  her  again,  in  his 
present  state.  I  will  go  up  to  my  room,  and  rest  on  the  bed. 
If  you  hear  any  thing,  you  have  only  to  come  and  call  me." 

An  hour  more  passed. 

Anne  went  to  Geoffrey's  door  and  listened.  He  was  stirring 
in  his  bed,  and  muttering  to  himself  She  went  on  to  the  door 
of  the  next  room,  which  Julius  had  left  partly  open.  Fatigue 
had  overpowered  him;  she  heard,  within,  the  quiet  breathing 
of  a  man  in  a  sound  sleep.  Anne  turned  back  again,  resolved 
not  to  disturb  him. 

At  the  head  of  the  stairs  she  hesitated — not  knowing  what 
to  do.  Her  horror  of  entering  Geoffrey's  room  by  herself 
was  insurmountable.  But  who  else  was  to  do  it  ?  The  girl 
had  gone  to  bed.  The  reason  which  Julius  had  given  for  not 
employing  the  assistance  of  Hester  Dethridge  was  unanswer- 
able. She  listened  again  at  Geoffrey's  door.  No  sound  was 
now  audible  in  the  room  to  a  person  in  the  passage  outside. 
Would  it  be  well  to  look  in,  and  make  sure  that  he  had  only 
fallen  asleep  again  ?  She  hesitated  once  more — she  was  still 
hesitating,  when  Hester  Dethridge  appeared  from  the  kitchen. 

She  joined  Anne  at  the  top  of  the  stairs — looked  at  her — 
and  wrote  a  line  on  her  slate:  "Frightened  to  go  in?  Leave 
it  to  Me." 

The  silence  in  the  room  justified  the  inference  that  he  was 
asleep.  If  Hester  looked  in,  Hester  could  do  no  harm  now. 
Anne  accepted  the  proposal. 

"  If  you  find  any  thing  wrong,"  she  said,  "  don't  disturb  his 
brother.     Come  to  me  first." 

With  that  caution  she  withdrew.  It  was  then  nearly  two 
in  the  morning.  She,  like  Julius,  was  sinking  from  fatigue. 
After  waiting  a  little,  and  hearing  nothing,  she  threw  herself 
on  the  sofa  in  her  room.  If  any  thing  happened,  a  knock  at 
the  door  would  rouse  her  instantly. 

In  the  mean  while  Hester  Dethridge  opened  Geoffrey's  bed 
room  door  and  wept  in, 


602  MAN    AND    WIFE. 

The  movements  and  the  rautterings  which  Anne  had  heard, 
had  been  movements  and  mutterings  in  his  sleep.  The  doc- 
tor's comjiosing  draught,  partially  disturbed  in  its  operation 
for  the  moment  only,  had  recovered  its  sedative  influence  on 
his  brain.     Geofi"rey  was  in  a  deep  and  quiet  sleep. 

Hester  stood  near  the  door,  looking  at  him.  She  moved  to 
go  out  again — stopped — and  fixed  her  eyes  suddenly  on  one 
of  the  inner  corners  of  the  room. 

The  same  sinister  change  which  had  passed  over  her  once 
already  in  Geoffrey's  presence,  when  they  met  in  the  kitchen- 
garden  at  Windygates,  now  passed  over  her  again.  Her  closed 
lips  dropped  apart.  Her  eyes  slowly  dilated — moved,  inch  by 
inch  from  the  corner,  following  something  along  the  empty 
wall,  in  the  direction  of  the  bed — stopped  at  the  head  of  the 
bed,  exactly  above  Geoffrey's  sleeping  face — stared,  rigid  and 
glittering,  as  if  they  saw  a  sight  of  horror  close  over  it.  He 
sighed  faintly  in  his  sleep.  The  sound,  slight  as  it  was,  broke 
the  spell  that  held  her.  She  slowly  lifted  her  withered  hands, 
and  wrung  them  above  her  head  ;  fled  back  across  the  passage  ; 
and,  rushing  into  her  room,  sank  on  her  knees  at  the  bedside. 

Now,  in  the  dead  of  night,  a  strange  thing  happened.  Now, 
in  the  silence  and  the  darkness,  a  hideous  secret  was  revealed. 

In  the  sanctuary  of  her  own  room — with  all  the  other  in- 
mates of  the  house  sleeping  round  her  —  the  dumb  woman 
threw  off  the  mysterious  and  terrible  disguise  under  which 
she  deliberately  isolated  herself  among  her  fellow-creatures  in 
the  hours  of  the  day.  Hester  Dethridge  spoke.  In  low,  thick, 
smothered  accents — in  a  wild  litany  of  her  own — she  prayed. 
She  called  upon  the  mercy  of  God  for  deliverance  from  her- 
self; for  a  deliverance  from  the  possession  of  the  Devil ;  for 
blindness  to  fall  on  her,  for  death  to  strike  her,  so  that  she 
might  never  see  that  unnamed  Horror  more  !  Sobs  shook  the 
whole  frame  of  the  stony  woman,  whom  nothing  human  moved 
at  other  times.  Tears  poured  over  those  clay-cold  cheeks. 
One  by  one  the  frantic  words  of  her  prayer  died  away  on  her 
lips.  Fierce  shuddering  fits  shook  her  from  head  to  foot. 
Slae  started  up  from  her  knees  in  the  darkness.  Light !  light ! 
light !  The  unnamed  Horror  was  behind  her  in  his  room. 
The  unnamed  Horror  was  looking  at  her  through  his  open 
door.  She  found  the  match-box,  and  lit  the  candle  on  her 
table — lit  the  two  other  candles  set  for  ornament  only  on  the 
mantel-piece — and  looked  all  round  the  brightly-lighted  little 
room.  ''Aha!"  she  said  to  herself,  wiping  the  cold  sweat  of 
her  agony  from  her  face.  "  Candles  to  other  people.  God's 
light  to  me.  Nothing  to  be  seen  I  nothing  to  be  seen  !"  Tak- 
ing one  of  the  candles  in  her  hand,  she  crossed  the  passage, 
with  her  head  down,  turned  her  back  on  Geoffrey's  open  door. 


MAN    AND    WIFE.  603 

closed  it  quickly  and  softly,  stretching  out  her  hand  behind 
her,  and  retreated  again  to  her  own  room.  She  lastened  the 
door,  and  took  an  ink-bottle  and  a  pen  from  the  mantel-piece. 
After  considering  for  a  moment,  she  hung  a  handkerchief  over 
the  key-hole,  and  laid  an  old  shawl  longways  at  the  bottom  of 
the  door,  so  as  to  hide  the  light  in  her  room  from  the  observa- 
tion of  any  one  in  the  house  who  might  wake  and  come  that 
way.  This  done,  she  opened  the  upper  part  of  her  dress,  and, 
slipping  her  lingers  into  a  secret  pocket  hidden  in  the  inner 
side  of  her  stays,  produced  from  it  some  neatly  folded  leaves 
of  thin  paper.  Spread  out  on  the  table,  the  leaves  revealed 
themselves— all  but  the  last — as  closely  covered  with  writing, 
in  her  own  hand. 

The  first  leaf  was  headed  by  this  inscription  :  "  My  Confes- 
sion. To  be  put  into  my  coffin,  and  to  be  buried  with  me  when 
I  die." 

She  turned  the  manuscript  over,  so  as  to  get  at  the  last  page. 
The  greater  part  of  it  was  left  blank.  A  few  lines  of  writing, 
at  the  top,  bore  the  date  of  the  day  of  the  week  and  month 
on  which  Lady  Lundie  had  dismissed  her  from  her  situation 
at  Windygates.     The  entry  was  expressed  in  these  terms : 

"  I  have  seen  it  again  to-day.  The  first  time  for  two  months 
past.  In  the  kitchen-garden.  Standing  behind  the  young 
gentleman  whose  name  is  Delamayn.  Resist  the  Devil,  and 
he  will  flee  from  you.  I  have  resisted.  By  prayer.  By  med- 
itation in  solitude.  By  reading  good  books.  I  have  left  my 
place.  I  have  lost  sight  of  the  young  gentleman  for  good. 
Who  will  IT  stand  behind  ?  and  point  to  next  ?  Lord  have 
mercy  upon  me  !     Christ  have  mercy  upon  me !" 

Under  this  she  now  added  the  following  lines,  first  carefully 
prefixing  the  date : 

"  I  have  seen  it  again  to-night.  I  notice  one  awful  change. 
It  has  appeared  twice  behind  the  same  person.  This  has  never 
happened  before.  This  makes  the  temptation  more  terrible 
than  ever.  To-night,  in  his  bedroom,  between  the  bed-head 
and  the  wall,  I  have  seen  it  behind  young  Mr.  Delamayn  again. 
The  head  just  above  his  face,  and  the  finger  pointing  downward 
at  his  throat.  Twice  behind  this  one  man.  And  never  twice 
behind  any  other  living  creature  till  now.  If  I  see  it  a  third 
time  behind  him — Lord  deliver  me  !  Christ  deliver  me  !  I 
daren't  think  of  it.  He  shall  leave  my  cottage  to-morrow.  I 
would  fain  have  drawn  back  from  the  bargain,  when  the 
stranger  took  the  lodgings  for  his  friend,  and  the  friend  proved 
to  be  Mr.  Delamayn.  I  didn't  like  it,  even  then.  After  the 
warning  to-night,  my  mind  is  made  up.  He  shall  go.  He  may 
have  his  money  back,  if  he  likes.  He  shall  go.  (Memorandum: 
Felt  the  temptation  whispering  this  time,  and  the  terror  tear- 


504  MAN   AND   WIFE. 

ing  at  me  all  the  while,  as  I  have  never  felt  them  yel.  Re- 
sisted, as  before,  by  prayer.  Am  now  going  down  stairs  to 
meditate  against  it  in  solitude — to  fortify  myself  against  it  by 
good  books.     Lord  be  merciful  to  me  a  sinner  !)" 

In  those  words  she  closed  the  entry,  and  put  the  manuscript 
back  in  the  secret  pocket  in  her  stays. 

She  went  down  to  the  little  room  looking  on  the  garden, 
which  had  once  been  her  brother's  study.  There  she  lit  a 
lamp,  and  took  some  books  from  a  shelf  that  hung  against  the 
wall.  The  books  were  the  Bible,  a  volume  of  Methodist  ser- 
mons, and  a  set  of  collected  Memoirs  of  Methodist  saints. 
Ranging  these  last  carefully  round  her,  in  an  order  of  her  own, 
Hester  Dethridge  sat  down  with  the  Bible  on  her  lap  to  watch 
out  the  night. 


CHAPTER  THE  FIFTY-THIRD. 

What  had  happened  in  the  hours  of  darkness  ? 

This  was  Anne's  first  thought,  when  the  sunlight  poured  in 
at  her  window,  and  woke  her  the  next  morning. 

She  made  immediate  inquiry  of  the  servant.  The  girl  could 
only  speak  for  herself  Nothing  had  occurred  to  disturb  her 
after  she  had  gone  to  bed.  Her  master  was  still,  she  believed, 
in  his  room.     Mrs.  Dethridge  was  at  her  work  in  the  kitchen. 

Anne  went  to  the  kitchen.  Hester  Dethridge  was  at  her  usual 
occupation  at  that  time — preparing  the  breakfast.  The  slight 
signs  of  animation  which  Anne  had  noticed  in  her  when  they 
last  met  appeared  no  more.  The  dull  look  was  back  again  in 
her  stony  eyes ;  the  lifeless  torpor  possessed  all  her  movements. 
Asked  if  any  thing  had  happened  in  the  night,  she  slowly  shook 
her  stolid  head,  slowly  made  the  sign  with  her  hand  which  sig- 
fied,  "  Nothing." 

Leaving  the  kitchen,  Anne  saw  Julius  in  the  front  garden. 
She  went  out  and  joined  him. 

"I  believe  I  have  to  thank  your  consideration  for  me  for 
some  hours  of  rest,"  he  said.  "  It  was  five  in  the  morning  when 
I  woke.  I  hope  you  had  no  reason  to  regret  having  left  me  to 
sleep  ?  I  went  into  Geoftrey's  room,  and  found  him  stirring. 
A  second  dose  of  the  mixture  composed  him  again.  The  fever 
has  gone.  He  looks  weaker  and  paler,  but  in  other  respects 
like  himself  We  will  retui-n  directly  to  the  question  of  his 
health.  I  have  something  to  say  to  you,  first,  about  a  change 
which  may  be  coming  in  your  life  here." 

"  Has  he  consented  to  the  separation  ?" 

**  No.     He  is  as  obstinate  about  it  as  ever.     I  have  placed 


MAN    AND   WIFE.  605 

the  matter  before  him  in  every  possible  light.  He  still  refuses, 
positively  refuses,  a  provision  which  would  make  him  an  inde- 
pendent man  for  life." 

"  Is  it  the  provision  he  might  have  had,  Lord  Holchester, 
if_?" 

"  If  he  had  married  Mrs.  Glenarm  ?  No.  It  is  impossible, 
consistently  with  my  duty  to  my  mother,  and  with  what  I  owe 
to  the  position  in  which  my  father's  death  has  placed  me,  that 
I  can  ofler  him  such  a  fortune  as  Mrs.  Glenarm's.  Still,  it  is  a 
handsome  income  which  he  is  mad  enough  to  refuse.  I  shall 
persist  in  pressing  it  on  him.     He  must  and  shall  take  it." 

Anne  felt  no  reviving  hope  roused  in  her  by  his  last  words. 
She  turned  to  another  subject. 

"  You  had  something  to  tell  me,"  she  said.  "  You  spoke  of 
a  change." 

*'  True.  The  landlady  here  is  a  very  strange  person ;  and 
she  has  done  a  very  strange  thing.  She  has  given  Geoffrey 
notice  to  quit  these  lodgings." 

"  Notice  to  quit  ?"  Anne  repeated,  in  amazement. 

"  Yes.  In  a  formal  letter.  She  handed  it  to  me  open,  as 
soon  as  I  was  up  this  morning.  It  was  impossible  to  get  any 
explanation  from  her.  The  poor  dumb  creature  simply  wrote 
on  her  slate :  '  Pie  may  have  his  money  back,  if  he  likes :  he 
shall  go  !'  Greatly  to  my  surprise  (for  the  woman  inspires  him 
with  the  strongest  aversion)  Geoffrey  refuses  to  go  until  his 
term  is  up.  I  have  made  the  peace  between  them  for  to-day. 
Mrs.  Dethridge,  very  reluctantly,  consents  to  give  him  four-and- 
twenty  hours.     And  there  the  matter  rests  at  present." 

"  What  can  her  motive  be  ?"  said  Anne. 

"  It's  useless  to  inquire.  Her  mind  is  evidently  off  its  bal- 
ance. One  thing  is  clear,  Geoffrey  can  not  keep  you  here  much 
longer.  The  coming  change  will  remove  you  from  this  dismal 
place — which  is  one  thing  gained.  And  it  is  quite  possible  that 
new  scenes  and  new  surroundings  may  have  their  influence  on 
Geoffrey  for  good.  His  conduct — otherwise  quite  incompre- 
hensible— may  be  the  result  of  some  latent  nervous  irritation 
which  medical  help  might  reach.  I  don't  attempt  to  disguise 
from  myself  or  from  you,  that  your  position  here  is  a  most  de- 
plorable one.  But  befoi'e  we  despair  of  the  future,  let  us  at 
least  inquire  whether  there  is  any  explanation  of  my  brother's 
present  behavior  to  be  found  in  the  present  state  of  my  broth- 
er's health.  I  have  been  considering  what  the  doctor  said  to 
me  last  night.  The  first  thing  to  do  is  to  get  the  best  medical 
advice  on  Geoffrey's  case  which  is  to  be  had.  What  do  you 
think?" 

"  I  daren't  tell  you  what  I  think.  Lord  Holchester,  I  will 
try — it  is  a  very  small  return  to  make  for  your  kindness — I  will 


506  MAN    AND    WIFE. 

try  to  see  my  position  with  your  eyes,  not  with  mine.  The 
best  medical  advice  that  you  can  obtain  is  the  advice  of  Mr. 
Speedwell.  It  was  he  who  first  made  the  discovery  tliat  your 
brother  was  in  broken  health." 

"The  very  man  for  our  purpose!  I  will  send  him  here  to- 
day or  to-morrow.  Is  there  any  thing  else  I  can  do  for  you  ? 
I  shall  see  Sir  Patrick  as  soon  as  I  get  to  town.  Have  you  any 
message  for  him  ?" 

Anne  hesitated.  Looking  attentively  at  her,  Julius  noticed 
that  she  changed  color  when  he  mentioned  Sir  Patrick's  name. 

"  Will  you  say  that  I  gratefully  thank  him  for  the  letter 
which  Lady  Holchester  was  so  good  as  to  give  me  last  night," 
she  replied.  "  And  will  you  entreat  him,  from  me,  not  to  ex- 
pose himself,  on  my  account,  to — "  she  hesitated,  and  finished 
the  sentence  with  her  eyes  on  the  ground — "  to  what  might 
happen,  if  he  came  here  and  insisted  on  seeing  me." 

"  Does  he  propose  to  do  that  ?" 

She  hesitated  again.  The  little  nervous  contraction  of  her 
lips  at  one  side  of  the  mouth  became  more  marked  than  usual. 
"  He  writes  that  his  anxiety  is  unendurable,  and  that  he  is  re- 
solved to  see  me,"  she  answered,  softly. 

"  He  is  likely  to  hold  to  his  resolution,  I  think,"  said  Julius. 
"  When  I  saw  him  yesterday.  Sir  Patrick  spoke  of  you  in  tej-ms 
of  admiration — " 

He  stopped.  The  bright  tears  were  glittering  on  Anne's  eye- 
lashes; one  of  her  hands  was  toying  nervously  with  something 
hidden  (possibly  Sir  Patrick's  letter)  in  the  bosom  of  her  dress. 
"I  thank  him  with  my  whole  heart,"  she  said,  in  low,  faltering- 
tones.     "  But  it  is  best  that  he  should  not  come  here." 

"  Would  you  like  to  write  to  him  ?" 

"  I  think  I  should  prefer  your  giving  him  my  message." 

Julius  understood  that  the  subject  was  to  proceed  no  fur- 
ther. Sir  Patrick's  letter  had  produced  some  impression  on 
her,  which  the  sensitive  nature  of  the  woman  seemed  to  shrink 
from  acknowledging,  even  to  herself.  They  turned  back  to  en- 
ter the  cottage.  At  the  iioor  they  were  met  by  a  surprise. 
Hester  Dethridge,  with  her  bonnet  on — dressed,  at  that  hour 
of  the  morning  to  go  out ! 

"Are  you  going  to  market  already  ?"  Anne  asked. 

Hester  shook  her  head. 

"  When  are  you  coming  back  ?" 

Hester  wrote  on  her  slate :  "  Not  till  the  night-time." 

Without  another  word  of  explanation  she  pulled  her  veil 
down  over  her  face,  and  made  for  the  gate.  The  key  had  been 
left  in  the  dining-room  by  Julius,  after  he  had  let  the  doctor 
out.  Hester  had  it  in  her  hand.  She  opened  the  gate,  and 
closed  the  door  after  her,  leaving  the  key  in  the  lock.     At  the 


MAN    AND   WIFE.  507 

moment  when  the  door  banged  to  Geoffrey  appeared  in  the 
passage. 

"  Where's  the  key  ?"  he  asked.     "  Who's  gone  out  ?" 

His  brother  answered  the  question.  He  looked  backward  and 
forward  suspiciously  between  Julius  and  Anne,  "  What  does 
she  go  out  for  at  this  time  ?"  he  said.  "  Has  she  left  the  house 
to  avoid  Me  ?" 

Julius  thought  this  the  likely  explanation.  Geoffrey  went 
down  sulkily  to  the  gate  to  lock  it,  and  returned  to  them,  with 
the  key  in  his  pocket. 

"  I'm  obliged  to  be  careful  of  the  gate,"  he  said.  "  The  neigh- 
borhood swarms  with  beggars  and  tramps.  If  you  want  to  go 
out,"  he  added,  turning  pointedly  to  Anne, "  I'm  at  your  serv- 
ice, as  a  good  husband  ought  to  be." 

After  a  hurried  breakfast  Julius  took  his  departure.  "  I  don't 
accept  your  refusal,"  he  said  to  his  brother,  before  Anne.  "  You 
will  see  me  here  again."  Geoffrey  obstinately  repeated  the  re- 
fusal. "  If  you  come  here  every  day  of  your  life,"  he  said,  "  it 
will  be  just  the  same." 

The  gate  closed  on  Julius.  Anne  returned  again  to  the  soli- 
tude of  her  own  chamber.  Geoffrey  entered  the  drawing-room, 
placed  the  volumes  of  the  Newgate  Calendar  on  the  table  be- 
fore him,  and  resumed  the  reading  which  he  had  been  unable 
to  continue  on  the  evening  before. 

Hour  after  hour  he  doggedly  plodded  through  one  case  of 
murder  after  another.  He  had  read  one  good  half  of  the  hor- 
rid chronicle  of  crime  before  his  power  of  fixing  his  attention 
began  to  fail  him.  Then  he  lit  his  pipe,  and  went  out  to  think 
over  it  in  the  garden.  However  the  atrocities  of  which  he  had 
been  reading  might  differ  in  other  respects,  there  was  one  terri- 
ble point  of  resemblance,  which  he  had  not  anticipated,  and  in 
which  every  one  of  the  cases  agreed.  Sooner  or  later,  there 
was  the  dead  body  always  certain  to  be  found  ;  always  bear- 
ing its  dumb  witness,  in  the  traces  of  poison  or  in  the  marks  of 
violence,  to  the  crime  committed  on  it. 

He  walked  to  and  fro  slowly,  still  pondering  over  the  prob- 
lem which  had  first  found  its  way  into  his  mind  when  he  had 
stopped  in  the  front  garden,  and  had  looked  up  at  Anne's  win- 
dow in  the  dark.  "  How  ?"  That  had  been  the  one  question 
before  him,  from  the  time  when  the  lawyer  had  annihilated  his 
hopes  of  a  divorce.  It  remained  the  one  question  still.  There 
was  no  answer  to  it  in  his  own  brain ;  there  was  no  answer  to 
it  in  the  book  which  he  had  been  consulting.  Every  thing  was 
in  his  favor,  if  he  could  only  find  out  "  how."  He  had  got  his 
hated  wife  up  stairs  at  his  mercy — thanks  to  his  refusal  of  the 
money  which  Julius  had  offered  to  him.  He  was  living  in  a 
place  absolutely  secluded  from  public  observation  on  all  sides 


508  MAN    AND    WIPE. 

of  it — thanks  to  his  resolution  to  remain  at  the  cottage  even 
after  his  landlady  had  insulted  him  by  sending  him  a  notice  to 
quit.  Every  thing  had  been  prepared,  every  thing  had  been 
sacrificed  to  the  fulfillment  of  one  purpose — and  how  to  attain 
that  purpose  was  still  the  same  impenetrable  mystery  to  him 
which  it  had  been  from  the  first ! 

What  was  the  other  alternative  ?  To  accept  the  proposal 
which  Julius  had  made.  In  other  words,  to  give  up  his  ven- 
geance on  Anne,  and  to  turn  his  back  on  the  splendid  future 
which  Mrs.  Glenarm's  devotion  still  offered  to  him. 

Never  !  He  would  go  back  to  the  books.  He  was  not  at 
the  end  of  them.  The  slightest  hint  in  the  pages  which  were 
still  to  be  read  might  set  his  sluggish  brain  working  in  the 
right  direction.  The  way  to  be  rid  of  her,  without  exciting 
the  suspicion  of  any  living  creature,  in  the  house  or  out  of  it, 
was  a  way  that  might  be  found  yet. 

Could  a  man,  in  his  position  of  life,  reason  in  this  brutal  man- 
ner ?  could  he  act  in  this  merciless  way  ?  Surely  the  thought 
of  what  he  was  about  to  do  must  have  troubled  him  this  time ! 

Pause  for  a  moment — and  look  back  at  him  in  the  past. 

Did  he  feel  any  remorse  when  he  was  plotting  the  betrayal 
of  Arnold  in  the  garden  at  Windygates?  The  sense  which 
feels  remorse  had  not  been  put  into  him.  What  he  is  now  is 
the  legitimate  consequence  of  what  he  was  then.  A  far  more 
serious  temptation  is  now  urging  him  to  commit  a  far  more 
serious  crime.  How  is  he  to  resist  ?  W^ill  his  skill  in  rowing 
(as  Sir  Patrick  once  put  it),  his  swiftness  in  running,  his  ad- 
mirable capacity  and  endurance  in  other  physical  exercises, 
help  him  to  win  a  purely  moral  victory  over  his  own  selfish- 
ness and  his  ow^n  cruelty  ?  No  !  The  moral  and  mental  neg- 
lect of  himself,  which  the  material  tone  of  public  feeling  about 
him  has  tacitly  encouraged,  has  left  him  at  the  mercy  of  the 
worst  instincts  in  his  nature — of  all  that  is  most  vile  and  of  all 
that  is  most  dangerous  in  the  composition  of  the  natural  man. 
With  the  mass  of  his  fellows,  no  harm  out  of  the  common  has 
come  of  this,  because  no  temptation  out  of  the  common  has 
passed  their  way.  But  with  Am,  the  case  is  reversed.  A 
temptation  out  of  the  common  has  passed  his  way.  How  does 
it  find  him  prepared  to  meet  it?  It  finds  him,  literally  and 
exactly,  what  his  training  has  left  him,  in  the  presence  of  any 
temptation  small  or  great — a  defenseless  man. 

Geoffrey  returned  to  the  cottage.  The  servant  stopped  him 
in  the  passage,  to  ask  at  what  time  he  wished  to  dine.  In- 
stead of  answering,  he  inquired  angrily  for  Mrs.  Dethridge. 
Mrs.  Dethridffe  had  not  come  back. 


MAX    AND    WIFE.  509 

It  was  now  late  in  the  afternoon,  and  she  had  been  out  since 
the  early  morning.  This  had  never  happened  before.  Vague 
suspicions  of  her,  one  more  monstrous  than  another,  began  to 
rise  in  Geoifrey's  mind.  Between  the  drink  and  the  fever,  he 
had  been  (as  Julius  had  told  him)  wandering  in  his  mind  dur- 
ing a  part  of  the  night.  Had  he  let  any  thing  out  in  that  con- 
dition ?  Had  Hester  heard  it  ?  And  was  it,  by  any  chance, 
at  the  bottom  of  her  long  absence  and  her  notice  to  quit  ?  He 
determined — without  letting  her  see  that  he  suspected  her — 
to  clear  up  that  doubt  as  soon  as  his  landlady  returned  to  the 
house. 

The  evening  came.  It  was  past  nine  o'clock  before  there 
was  a  ring  at  the  bell.  The  servant  came  to  ask  for  the  key. 
GeofiVey  rose  to  go  to  the  gate  himself — and  changed  his  mind 
before  he  left  the  room.  Her  suspicions  might  be  roused  (sup- 
posing it  to  be  Hester  who  was  waiting  for  admission)  if  he 
opened  the  gate  to  her  when  the  servant  was  there  to  do  it. 
He  gave  the  girl  the  key,  and  kept  out  of  sight. 

"  Dead  tired  !" — the  servant  said  to  herself,  seeing  her  mis- 
tress by  the  light  of  the  lamp  over  the  gate. 

"  Dead  tired  !" — Geoffrey  said  to  himself,  observing  Hester 
suspiciously  as  she  passed  him  in  the  passage  on  her  w^ay  up 
stairs  to  take  off  her  bonnet  in  her  own  room. 

"  Dead  tired  !" — ^Anne  said  to  herself,  meeting  Hester  on  the 
upper  floor,  and  receiving  from  her  a  letter  in  Blanche's  hand- 
writing, delivered  to  the  mistress  of  the  cottage  by  the  post- 
man, who  had  met  her  at  her  own  gate. 

Having  given  the  letter  to  Anne,  Hester  Dethridge  with- 
drew to  her  bedroom. 

Geoffrey  closed  the  door  of  the  drawing-room,  in  which  the 
candles  were  burning,  and  went  into  the  dining-room,  in  which 
there  was  no  light.  Leaving  the  door  ajar,  he  waited  to  inter- 
cept his  landlady  on  her  way  back  to  her  supper  in  the  kitchen. 

Hester  wearily  secured  her  door,  wearily  lit  the  candles, 
wearily  put  the  pen  and  ink  on  the  table.  For  some  minutes 
after  this  she  was  compelled  to  sit  down,  and  rally  her  strength 
and  fetch  her  breath.  After  a  little  she  was  able  to  remove 
her  upper  clothing.  This  done,  she  took  the  manuscript,  in- 
scribed, "My  Confession,"  out  of  the  secret  pocket  of  her  stays 
— turned  to  the  last  leaf  as  before — and  wrote  another  entry, 
under  the  entry  made  on  the  previous  night. 

"This  morning  I  gave  him  notice  to  quit,  and  offered  him 
his  money  back  if  he  wanted  it.  He  refuses  to  go.  He  shall 
go  to-morrow,  or  I  will  burn  the  place  over  his  head.  All 
through  to-day  I  have  avoided  him  by  keeping  out  of  the 


510  MAN    AND   WIFE. 

house.  No  rest  to  ease  my  mind,  and  no  sleep  to  close  my 
eyes.  I  humbly  bear  my  cross  as  long  as  my  strength  will 
le*  me." 

At  those  words  the  pen  dropped  from  her  fingers.  Her  head 
nodded  on  her  breast.  She  roused  herself  with  a  start.  Sleep 
was  the  enemy  she  dreaded  :  sleep  brought  dreams. 

She  unfastened  the  window-shutters  and  looked  out  at  the 
night.  The  peaceful  moonlight  was  shining  over  the  garden. 
The  clear  depths  of  the  night  sky  were  soothing  and  beautiful 
to  look  at.  What !  Fading  already  ?  clouds  ?  darkness  ?  No  ! 
Nearly  asleep  once  more.  She  roused  herself  again,  w^ith  a 
start.  There  was  the  moonlight,  and  there  was  the  garden  as 
bright  under  it  as  ever. 

Dreams  or  no  dreams,  it  was  useless  to  fight  longer  against 
the  weariness  that  overpowered  her.  She  closed  the  shutters, 
and  w^ent  back  to  the  bed ;  and  put  her  Confession  in  its  cus- 
tomary place  at  night,  under  her  pillow. 

She  looked  round  the  room — and  shuddered.  Every  corner 
of  it  was  filled  with  the  terrible  memories  of  the  past  night. 
She  might  wake  from  the  torture  of  the  dreams  to  find  the  ter- 
ror of  the  Apparition  watching  at  her  bedside.  Was  there  no 
remedy  ?  no  blessed  safeguard  under  which  she  might  tranquil- 
ly resign  herself  to  sleep?  A  thought  crossed  her  mind.  The 
good  book — the  Bible.  If  she  slept  with  the  Bible  under  her 
pillow,  there  was  hope  in  the  good  book — the  hope  of  sleeping 
in  peace. 

It  was  not  worth  while  to  put  on  the  gown  and  the  stays 
whicli  she  had  taken  ofi".  Her  shawl  would  cover  her.  It  was 
equally  needless  to  take  the  candle.  The  lower  shutters  would 
not  be  closed  at  that  hour ;  and  if  they  were,  she  could  lay 
her  hand  on  the  Bible,  in  its  place  on  the  parlor  book-shelf, 
in  the  dark. 

She  removed  the  Confession  from  under  the  pillow.  Not 
even  for  a  minute  could  she  prevail  on  herself  to  leave  it  in 
one  room  while  she  was  away  from  it  in  another.  With  the 
manuscript  folded  up,  and  hidden  in  her  hand,  she  slowly  de- 
scended the  stairs  again.  Her  knees  trembled  under  her.  She 
was  obliged  to  hold  by  the  banisters  with  the  hand  that  was 
free. 

Geoffrey  observed  her  from  the  dining-room,  on  her  way 
down  the  stairs.  He  waited  to  see  what  she  did,  before  he 
showed  himself,  and  spoke  to  her.  Instead  of  going  on  into  the 
kitchen,  she  stopped  short,  and  entered  the  parlor.  Another 
suspicious  circumstance  !  What  did  she  want  in  the  parlor, 
without  a  candle,  at  that  time  of  night? 

She  went  to  the  book-case — her  dark  figure  plainly  visible 
in  the  moonlight  that  flooded  the  little  room.     She  statrgered 


MAN   AND    WIFE.  511 

and  put  her  hand  to  her  head ;  giddy,  to  all  appearance,  from 
extreme  fatigue.  She  recovered  herself,  and  took  a  book  from 
the  shelf  She  leaned  against  the  wall  after  she  had  possessed 
herself  of  the  book — too  weary,  as  it  seemed,  to  get  up  stairs 
again  without  a  little  rest.  Her  arm-chair  was  near  her.  Bet- 
ter rest,  for  a  moment  or  two,  to  be  had  in  that  than  could  be 
got  by  leaning  against  the  wall.  She  sat  down  heavily  in  the 
chair,  with  the  book  on  her  lap.  One  of  her  arms  hung  over 
the  arm  of  the  chair,  with  the  hand  closed,  apparently  holding 
something. 

He  hea^  nodded  on  her  breast — recovered  itself — and  sank 
gently  on  the  cushion  at  the  back  of  the  chair.  Asleep?  Fast 
asleep. 

In  less  than  a  minute  the  muscles  of  the  closed  hand  that 
hung  over  the  arm  of  the  chair  slowly  relaxed.  Something 
white  slipped  out  of  her  hand,  and  lay  in  the  moonlight  on  the 
floor. 

Geofii-ey  took  off  his  heavy  shoes,  and  entered  the  room 
noiselessly  in  his  stockings.  He  picked  up  the  white  thing  on 
the  floor.  It  proved  to  be  a  collection  of  several  sheets  of 
thin  paper,  neatly  folded  together,  and  closely  covered  with 
writing. 

Writing  ?  As  long  as  she  was  awake  she  had  kept  it  hidden 
in  her  hand.     Why  hide  it  ? 

Had  he  let  out  any  thing  to  compromise  himself  when  he 
was  light-headed  with  the  fever  the  night  before  ?  and  had  she 
taken  it  down  in  writing  to  produce  against  him  ?  Possessed 
by  guilty  distrust,  even  that  monstrous  doubt  assumed  a  look 
of  probability  to  Geoffrey's  mind.  He  left  the  parlor  as  noise- 
lessly as  he  had  entered  it,  and  made  for  the  candle-light  in  the 
drawing-room,  determined  to  examine  the  manuscript  in  his 
hand. 

After  carefully  smoothing  out  the  folded  leaves  on  the  table, 
he  turned  to  the  first  page,  and  read  these  lines. 


CHAPTER  THE  FIFTY-FOURTH. 

THE   MANUSCRIPT. 
1. 

"  My  Confession :  To  be  put  into  my  cofiin ;  and  to  be  buried 
with  me  when  I  die. 

"  This  is  the  history  of  what  I  did  in  the  time  of  my  married 
life.  Here — known  to  no  other  mortal  creature,  confessed  to 
my  Creator  alone — is  the  truth. 


512  MAN"   AND   WIFE. 

"At  the  great  day  of  the  Resurrection,  we  shall  all  vise 
again  in  our  bodies  as  we  have  lived.  When  I  am  called  be- 
fore the  Judgment  Seat  I  shall  have  this  in  my  hand. 

"  Oh,  just  and  merciful  Judge,  Thou  knowest  what  I  have 
suflfered.     My  trust  is  in  Thee. 

2. 

"  I  am  the  eldest  of  a  large  family,  bom  of  pious  parents. 
We  belonged  to  the  congregation  of  the  Primitive  Method- 
ists. 

"My  sisters  were  all  married  before  me.  I  remained  for 
some  years  the  only  one  at  home.  At  the  latter  part  of  the 
time  my  mother's  health  failed ;  and  I  managed  the  house  in 
her  place.  Our  spiritual  pastor,  good  Mr.  Bapchild,  used  often 
to  dine  with  us,  on  Sundays,  between  the  services.  He  ap- 
proved of  my  management  of  the  hou5?6,  and,  in  particular,  of 
my  cooking.  This  was  not  pleasant  to  my  mother,  who  felt  a 
jealousy  of  my  being,  as  it  were,  set  over  her  in  her  place. 
My  unhappiness  at  home  began  in  this  way.  My  mother's 
temper  got  worse  as  her  health  got  worse.  My  father  was 
much  away  from  us,  traveling  for  his  business.  I  had  to  bear 
it  all.  About  this  time  I  began  to  think  it  would  be  well  for 
me  if  I  could  marry  as  my  sisters  had  done  ;  and  have  good 
Mr.  Bapchild  to  dinner,  between  the  services,  in  a  house  of 
my  own. 

"  In  this  frame  of  mind,  I  made  acquaintance  with  a  young 
man  who  attended  service  at  our  chapel. 

"  His  name  was  Joel  Dethridge.  He  had  a  beautiful  voice. 
When  we  sang  hymns,  he  sang  off  the  same  book  with  me.  By 
trade  he  was  a  paper-hanger.  We  had  much  serious  talk  to- 
gether, I  walked  with  him  on  Sundays.  He  was  a  good  ten 
years  younger  than  I  was ;  and,  being  only  a  journeyman,  his 
worldly  station  was  below  mine.  My  mother  found  out  the 
liking  that  had  grown  up  between  us.  She  told  my  father  the 
next  time  he  was  at  home.  Also  my  married  sisters  and  my 
brothers.  They  all  joined  together  to  stop  things  from  going 
further  between  me  and  Joel  Dethridge.  I  had  a  hai-d  time  of 
it.  Ml*.  Bapchild  expressed  himself  as  feeling  much  grieved 
at  the  turn  things  were  taking.  He  introduced  me  into  a  ser- 
mon— not  by  name,  but  I  knew  who  it  was  meant  for.  Per- 
haps I  might  have  given  way  if  they  had  not  done  one  thing. 
They  made  inquiries  of  my  young  man's  enemies,  and  brought 
wicked  stories  of  him  to  me  behind  his  back.  This,  after  we 
had  sung  off  the  same  hymn-book,  and  walked  together,  and 
agreed  one  with  the  other  on  religious  subjects,  was  too  much 
to  bear.  I  was  of  age  to  judge  for  myself.  And  I  married 
Joel  Dethridge. 


MAN   AND   WIFB,  513 


"My  relations  all  turned  their  backs  on  me.  Not  one  of 
them  was  present  at  my  marriage  ;  my  brother  Reuben,  in  par- 
ticular, who  led  the  rest,  saying  that  they  had  done  with  me 
from  that  time  forth.  Mr.  Bapchild  was  much  moved ;  he 
shed  tears,  and  said  he  would  pray  for  me. 

"  I  was  married  in  London  by  a  pastor  who  was  a  stranger ; 
and  we  settled  in  London  with  fair  prospects.  I  had  a  little 
fortune  of  my  own — my  share  of  some  money  left  to  us  girls 
by  our  aunt  Hester,  whom  I  was  named  after.  It  was  three  hun- 
dred pounds.  Nearly  one  hundred  of  this  I  spent  in  buying 
furniture  to  fit  up  the  little  house  we  took  to  live  in.  The  rest 
I  gave  to  my  husband  to  put  into  the  bank  against  the  time 
when  he  wanted  it  to  set  up  in  business  for  himself 

"  For  three  months,  uiore  or  less,  we  got  on  nicely — except 
in  one  particular.  My  husband  never  stirred  in  the  matter 
of  starting  in  business  for  himself. 

"  He  was  once  or  twice  cross  with  me  when  I  said  it  seemed 
a  pity  to  be  spending  the  money  in  the  bank  (which  might  be 
afterward  wanted)  instead  of  earning  more  in  business.  Good 
Mr.  Bapchild,  happening  about  this  time  to  be  in  London,  staid 
over  Sunday,  and  came  to  dine  with  us  between  the  services. 
He  had  tried  to  make  my  peace  with  my  relations — but  he  had 
not  succeeded.  At  my  request  he  spoke  to  my  husband  about 
the  necessity  of  exerting  himself  My  husband  took  it  ill.  I 
then  saw  him  seriously  out  of  temper  for  the  first  time.  Good 
Mr.  Bapchild  said  no  more.  He  appeared  to  be  alarmed  at 
what  had  happened,  and  he  took  his  leave  early. 

"  Shortly  afterward  my  husband  went  out.  I  got  tea  ready 
for  him — but  he  never  came  back.  I  got  supper  ready  for  him 
— but  he  never  came  back.  It  was  past  twelve  at  night  be- 
fore I  saw  him  again.  I  was  very  much  startled  by  the  state 
he  came  home  in.  He  didn't  speak  like  himself,  or  look  like 
himself:  he  didn't  seem  to  know  me — wandered  in  his  mind, 
and  fell  all  in  a  lump  like  on  our  bed.  I  ran  out  and  fetched 
the  doctor  to  him. 

"  The  doctor  pulled  him  up  to  the  light,  and  looked  at  him  ; 
smelled  his  breath,  and  dropped  him  down  again  on  the  bed ; 
turned  about,  and  stared  at  me.  '  What's  the  matter,  sir  ?'  I 
says.  '  Do  you  mean  to  tell  me  you  don't  know  ?'  says  the 
doctoi".  '  No,  sir,'  says  I.  '  Why  what  sort  of  a  woman  are 
you,'  says  he, '  not  to  know  a  drunken  man  when  you  see  him  !' 
With  that  he  went  away,  and  left  me  standing  by  the  bedside, 
all  in  a  tremble  from  head  to  foot. 

"  This  was  how  I  first  found  out  that  I  was  the  wife  of  a 
drunken  man. 

33 


514  MAN    A2iD    WIPE. 


4. 


"  I  have  omitted  to  say  any  thing  about  my  husband's  family, 

"  While  we  were  keeping  company  together  he  told  me  he 
was  an  orphan  —  with  an  uncle  and  aunt  in  Canada,  and  an 
only  brother  settled  in  Scotland.  Before  we  were  married  he 
gave  me  a  letter  from  this  brother.  It  was  to  say  that  he  was 
sorry  he  was  not  able  to  come  to  England,  and  be  present  at 
my  marriage,  and  to  wish  me  joy  and  the  rest  of  it.  Good 
Mr.  Bapchild  (to  whom,  in  my  distress,  I  wrote  word  privately 
of  what  had  happened)  wrote  back  in  return,  telling  me  to  wait 
a  little,  and  see  whether  my  husband  did  it  again. 

"  I  had  not  long  to  wait.  He  was  in  liquor  again  the  next 
day,  and  the  next.  Hearing  this,  Mr.  Bapchild  instructed  me 
to  send  him  the  letter  from  my  husband's  brother.  He  re- 
minded me  of  some  of  the  stories  about  my  husband,  which  I 
had  refused  to  believe  in  the  time  before  I  was  married ;  and 
he  said  it  might  be  well  to  make  inquiries. 

"  The  end  of  the  inquiries  was  this :  The  brother,  at  that 
very  time,  was  placed  privately  (by  his  own  request)  under  a 
doctor's  care  to  get  broken  of  habits  of  drinking.  The  craving 
for  strong  liquor  (the  doctor  wrote)  was  in  the  family.  They 
would  be  sober  sometimes  for  months  together,  drinking  noth- 
ing stronger  than  tea.  Then  the  fit  would  seize  them  ;  and 
they  would  drink,  drink,  drink,  for  days  together,  like  the  mad 
and  miserable  wretches  that  they  were. 

"This  was  the  husband  I  was  married  to.  And  I  had  of- 
fended all  my  relations,  and  estranged  them  from  me,  for  his 
sake.  Here  was  surely  a  sad  prospect  for  a  woman  after  only 
a  few  months  of  wedded  life  ! 

"  In  a  year's  time  the  money  in  the  bank  was  gone,  and  my 
husband  was  out  of  employment.  He  always  got  work — be- 
ing a  first-rate  hand  when  he  was  sober — and  always  lost  it 
again  when  the  drinking-tit  seized  him.  I  was  loath  to  leave 
our  nice  little  house,  and  part  with  my  pretty  furniture  ;  and  I 
proposed  to  him  to  let  me  try  for  employment,  by  the  day,  as 
cook,  and  so  keep  things  going  while  he  was  looking  out  again 
for  work.  He  was  sober  and  penitent  at  the  time ;  and  he 
agreed  to  what  I  proposed.  And,  more  than  that,  he  took  the 
Total  Abstinence  Pledge,  and  promised  to  turn  over  a  new 
leaf.  Matters,  as  I  thought,  began  to  look  fairly  again.  We 
had  nobody  but  our  two  selves  to  think  of.  I  had  borne  no 
child,  and  had  no  prospect  of  bearing  one.  Unlike  most  wom- 
en, I  thought  this  a  mercy  instead  of  a  misfortune.  In  my 
situation  (as  I  soon  grew  to  know)  my  becoming  a  mother 
would  only  have  proved  to  be  an  aggravation  of  my  hard  lot. 
\   "The  sort  of  employment  I  wanted  was  not  to  be  got  in  fc 


MAN    AND    WIPE.  516 

Iday.  Good  Mr,  Bapchild  gave  me  a  character ;  and  our  land- 
lord, a  worthy  man  (belonging,  I  am  sorry  to  say,  to  the  Pop- 
ish Church),  spoke  for  me  to  the  steward  of  a  club.  Still,  it 
took  time  to  persuade  people  that  I  was  the  thorough  good 
cook  I  claimed  to  be.  Nigh  on  a  fortnight  had  passed  before 
I  got  tlie  chance  I  had  been  looking  out  for.  I  went  home  in 
good  spirits  (for  me)  to  report  what  had  happened,  and  found 
the  brokers  in  the  house  carrying  off  the  fnruiture  which  I  had 
bought  with  my  own  money  for  sale  by  auction.  I  asked 
them  how  they  dared  touch  it  without  my  leave.  They  an- 
swered, civilly  enough  I  must  own,  that  they  were  acting  un- 
der my  husband's  orders ;  and  they  went  on  removing  it,  be- 
fore my  own  eyes,  to  the  cart  outside.  I  ran  up  stairs,  and 
found  my  husband  on  the  landing.  He  was  in  liquor  again. 
It  is  useless  to  say  what  passed  between  us.  I  shall  only  men- 
tion that  this  was  the  first  occasion  on  which  he  lifted  his  fist 
and  struck  me. 

5. 

"Having  a  spirit  of  my  own,  I  was  resolved  not  to  endure 
dt.  I  ran  out  to  the  Police  Court,  hard  by. 
j  "My  money  had  not  only  bought  the  furniture — it  had  kept 
the  house  going  as  well;  paying  the  taxes  which  the  Queen 
and  the  Parliament  asked  for  among  other  things.  I  now 
went  to  the  magistrate  to  see  what  the  Queen  and  the  Parlia- 
ment, in  return  for  the  taxes,  would  do  for  me. 

" '  Is  your  furniture  settled  on  yourself?'  he  says,  when  I  told 
him  what  had  happened. 

"  I  didn't  understand  what  he  meant.  He  turned  to  some 
person  who  was  sitting  on  the  bench  with  him.  'This  is  a 
hard  case,'  he  says.  '  Poor  people  in  this  condition  of  life 
idon't  even  know  what  a  marriage  settlement  means.  And,  if 
they  did,  how  many  of  them  could  afford  to  pay  the  lawyer's 
charges '?'  Upon  that  he  turned  to  me.  '  Yours  is  a  common 
case,'  he  said.  '  In  the  present  state  of  the  law  I  can  do  noth- 
ing for  you.' 

"  It  was  impossible  to  believe  that.  Common  or  not,  I  put 
any  case  to  him  over  again. 

" '  I  have  bought  the  furniture  with  my  own  money,  sir,'  I 
says.  '  It's  mine,  honestly  come  by,  with  bill  and  receipt  to 
prove  it.  They  are  taking  it  away  from  me  by  force,  to  sell  it 
against  my  will.  Don't  tell  me  that's  the  law.  This  a  Chris- 
tian country.     It  can't  be." 

" '  My  good  creature,'  says  he,  '  you  are  a  married  woman. 
The  law  doesn't  allow  a  married  woman  to  call  any  thing  her 
own — unless  she  has  previously  (with  a  lawyer's  help)  made  a 
bargain  to  that  efiect  with  her  husband  before  marrying  him. 


516  MAN    AND    WIFE. 

You  have  made  no  bargain.  Your  husband  has  a  right  to  sell 
your  furniture  if  he  likes.  I  am  sorry  for  you  ;  I  can't  hinder 
him.' 

"  I  was  obstinate  about  it.  '  Please  to  answer  me  this,  sir,' 
I  says.  '  I've  been  told  by  wiser  heads  than  mine  that  we  all 
pay  our  taxes  to  keep  the  Queen  and  the  Parliament  going, 
and  that  the  Queen  and  the  Parliament  make  laws  to  protect 
us  in  return.  I  have  paid  my  taxes.  Why,  if  you  please,  ia 
there  no  law  to  protect  me  in  return  ?' 

"  '  I  can't  enter  into  that,'  says  he.  'I  must  take  the  law  aa 
I  find  it ;  and  so  must  you.  I  see  a  mark  there  on  the  side  of 
your  face.  Has  your  husband  been  beating  you  ?  If  he  has, 
summon  him  here.     I  can  punish  him  for  thaV 

"'How  can  you  punish  him,  sir?'  says  I. 

"  '  I  can  fine  him,'  says  he.     '  Or  I  can  send  him  to  prison.' 

"  'As  to  the  fine,'  says  I,  'he  can  pay  that  out  of  the  money 
he  gets  by  selling  my  furniture.  As  to  the  prison,  while  he's 
in  it,  what's  to  become  of  me,  with  my  money  spent  by  him, 
and  my  possession  gone ;  and  when  he's  out  of  it,  what's  to 
become  of  me  again,  with  a  husband  whom  I  have  been  the 
means  of  punishing,  and  who  comes  home  to  his  wife  knowing 
it  ?  It's  bad  enough  as  it  is,  sir,'  says  I.  '  There's  more  that's 
bruised  in  me  than  what  shows  in  my  face.  I  wish  you  good- 
morning.' 

/ 

"  When  I  got  back  the  furniture  was  gone,  and  my  husband 
was  gone.  There  was  nobody  but  the  landlord  in  the  empty 
house.  He  said  all  that  could  be  said — kindly  enough  toward 
me,  so  far  as  I  Avas  concerned.  When  he  was  gone  I  locked 
my  trunk,  and  got  away  in  a  cab  after  dark,  and  found  a  lodg- 
ing to  lay  my  head  in.  If  ever  there  was  a  lonely,  broken- 
s     hearted  creature  in  the  world,  I  was  that  creature  that  night. 

"  There  was  but  one  chance  of  earning  my  bread — to  go  to 
the  employment  offered  me  (under  a  man  cook,  at  a  club). 
And  there  was  but  one  hope — the  hope  that  I  had  lost  sight 
of  my  husband  forever. 

"  I  went  to  my  work — and  prospered  in  it — and  earned  my 
first  quarter's  wages.  But  it's  not  good  for  a  woman  to  be  sit- 
uated as  I  was ;  friendless  and  alone,  with  her  things  that  she 
took  a  pride  in  sold  away  from  her,  and  with  nothing  to  look 
forward  to  in  her  life  to  come.  I  was  regular  in  my  attendance 
at  chapel ;  but  I  think  my  heart  began  to  get  hardened,  and  ray 
mind  to  be  overcast  in  secret  with  its  own  thoughts  about  this 
time.  There  was  a  change  coming.  Two  or  three  days  after 
I  had  earned  the  wages  just  mentioned  my  husband  found  me 
out.     The  furniture-money  was  all  spent.     He  made  a  disturb* 


MAN    AND    AVIFE.  517 

ance  at  the  club.  I  was  only  able  to  quiet  him  by  giving  him 
1  all  the  money  I  could  spare  from  my  own  necessities.  The 
scandal  was  brought  before  the  committee.  They  said,  if  the 
circumstance  occurred  again,  they  should  be  obliged  to  part 
'  with  me.  In  a  fortnight  the  circumstance  occurred  again.  It's 
useless  to  dwell  on  it.  They  all  said  they  were  sorry  for  me, 
I  lost  the  place.  My  husband  went  back  with  me  to  my  lodg- 
ings. The  next  morning  I  caught  him  taking  my  purse,  with 
the  few  shillings  I  had  in  it,  out  of  my  trunk,  which  he  had 
broken  open.  We  quarreled.  And  he  struck  me  again — this 
time  knocking  me  down. 

"I  went  once  more  to  the  police  court,  and  told  my  story — 
to  another  magistrate  this  time.  My  only  petition  was  to  have 
my  husband  kept  away  from  me.  "I  don't  want  to  be  a  bur- 
den on  others'  (I  says)  ;  'I  don't  want  to  do  any  thing  but 
what's  right.  I  don't  even  complain  of  having  been  cruelly 
used.  All  I  ask  is  to  be  let  to  earn  an  honest  living.  Will 
the  law  protect  me  in  the  effort  to  do  that  ?' 

"The  answer,  in  substance,  was  that  the  law  might  protect 
me,  provided  I  had  money  to  spend  in   asking  some  higher 
'  court  to  grant  me   a   separation.      After   allowing  my   hus-  j 
I  band  to  rob  me  openly  of  the  only  property  I  possessed — 
'  namely,  my  furniture — the  law  turned  round  on   me  when  I 
called  upon  it  in  my  distress,  and  held  out  its  hand  to  be  paid. 
I  had  just  three-and-sixpence  left  in  the  world — and  the  pros- 
pect, if  I  earned  more,  of  my  husband  coming  (with  permission 
!  of  the  law)  and  taking  it  away  from  me.     There  was  only  one 
'  chance — namely,  to  get  time  to  turn  round  in,  and  to  escape 
him  again.     I  got  a  month's  freedom  from  him,  by  charging 
:  him  with  knocking  me  down.     The  magistrate  (happening  to 

•  be  young,  and  new  to  his  business)  sent  him  to  prison,  instead 
of  fining  him.  This  gave  me  time  to  get  a  character  from  the 
club,  as  well  as  a  special  testimonial  from  good  Mr.  Bapchild.  U 

I  With  the  help  of  these,  I  obtained  a  place  in  a  private  family  n 
,  — a  place  in  the  country,  this  time. 

"  I  found  myself  now  in  a  haven  of  peace.     I  was  among  wor- 
thy, kind-hearted  people,  who  felt  for  my  distresses,  and  treat- 
■  ed  me  most  indulgently.     Indeed,  through  all  my  troubles,  I 

•  must  say  I  have  found  one  thing  hold  good.  In  my  experi- 
(  ence,  I  have  observed  that  people  are  oftener  quick  than  not  to 
J  feel  a  human  compassion  for  others  in  distress.  Also,  that  they 
;  mostly  see  plain  enough  what's  hard  and  cruel  and  unfair  on 

them  in  the  governing  of  the  country  which  they  help  to  keep 
i  going.  But  once  ask  them  to  get  on  from  sitting  down  and 
1  grumbling  about  it,  to  rising  up  and  setting  it  I'ight,  and  what 
;  do  you  find  them  ?  As  helpless  as  a  flock  of  sheep — that's 
'  what  you  find  them. 


H 


518  MAN   AND   WIFE. 

"  More  than  six  months  passed,  and  I  saved  a  little  money 
again. 

"One  night,  just  as  we  were  going  to  bed,  there  was  a  loud 
ring  at  the  bell.  The  footman  answered  the  door,  and  I  heard 
my  husband's  voice  in  the  hall.  He  had  traced  me,  with  the 
help  of  a  man  he  knew  in  the  police ;  and  he  had  come  to  claim 
his  rights.  I  ottered  him  all  the  little  money  I  had  to  let  me 
be.  My  good  master  spoke  to  him.  It  was  all  useless.  He 
was  obstinate  and  savage.  If — instead  of  my  running  off  from 
him — it  had  been  all  the  other  way,  and  he  had  run  off  from  me, 
something  might  have  been  done  (as  I  understood)  to  protect 
me.  But  he  stuck  to  his  wife — as  long  as  I  could  make  a  far- 
thing, he  stuck  to  his  wife.  Being  married  to  him,  I  had  no 
right  to  have  left  him  ;  I  was  bound  to  go  with  my  husband ; 
there  was  no  escape  for  me.  I  bade  them  good-bye.  And  I 
have  never  forgotten  their  kindness  to  me  from  that  day  to  this. 

"  My  husband  took  me  back  to  London. 

"As  long  as  the  money  lasted,  the  drinking  went  on.  When 
it  was  gone  I  was  beaten  again.  Where  was  the  remedy? 
There  was  no  remedy,  but  to  try  and  escape  him  once  more. 
Why  didn't  I  have  him  locked  up  ?  What  was  the  good  of 
having  him  locked  up?  In  a  few  weeks  he  would  be  out  of 
prison  ;  sober  and  penitent,  and  promising  amendment — and 
then  when  the  fit  took  him,  there  he  would  be,  the  same  furi- 
ous savage  that  he  had  been  often  and  often  before.  My  heart 
got  hard  under  the  hopelessness  of  it ;  and  dark  thoughts  be- 
set me,  mostly  at  night.  About  this  time  I  began  to  say  to  my- 
self, '  There's  no  deliverance  from  this  but  in  death — his  death 
or  mine.' 

"  Once  or  twice  I  went  down  to  the  bridges  after  dark,  and 
looked  over  at  the  river.  No.  I  wasn't  the  sort  of  woman  who 
ends  her  own  wretchedness  in  that  way.  Your  blood  must  be 
in  a  fever,  and  your  head  in  a  flame — at  least  I  fancy  so — you 
must  be  hurried  into  it,  like,  to  go  and  make  away  with  your- 
self My  troubles  never  took  that  effect  on  me,  I  always  turn- 
ed cold  under  them,  instead  of  hot.  Bad  for  me,  I  dare  say; 
but  what  you  are — you  are.  Can  the  Ethiopian  change  his  skin, 
or  the  leopard  his  spots  ? 

"  I  got  away  from  him  once  more,  and  found  good  employ- 
ment once  more.  It  don't  matter  how,  and  it  don't  matter 
where.  My  story  is  always  the  same  thing,  over  and  over  again. 
Best  get  to  the  end. 

"There  was  one  change,  however,  this  time.  My  employ- 
ment was  not  in  a  private  family.  I  was  also  allowed  to  teach 
cookery  to  young  women,  in  my  leisure  hours.  What  with  this, 
and  what  with  a  longer  time  passing  on  the  present  occasion 
before  my  husband  found  me  out,  I  was  as  comfortably  off  as 


MAN    AND    WIFE.  619 

an  my  position  T  could  hope  to  be.  When  ray  work  was  done, 
I  went  away  at  night  to  sleep  in  a  lodging  of  my  own.  It  was 
only  a  bedroom  ;  and  I  furnished  it  myself — partly  for  the  sake 
of  economy  (the  rent  being  not  half  as  much  as  for  a  furnished 
room) ;  and  partly  for  the  sake  of  cleanliness.  Through  all  my 
troubles  I  always  liked  things  neat  about  me — neat  and  shape- 
ly and  good. 

"  Well,  it's  needless  to  say  how  it  ended.  He  found  me  out 
,iagain — this  time  by  a  chance  meeting  with  me  in  the  street. 

"  He  was  in  rags,  and  half  starved.  But  that  didn't  matter 
now.  All  he  had  to  do  was  to  put  his  hand  into  my  pocket 
and  take  what  he  wanted.  There  is  no  limit,  in  England,  to 
what  a  bad  husband  may  do — as  long  as  he  sticks  to  his  wife. 
On  the  present  occasion,  he  was  cunning  enough  to  see  that  he 
iwould  be  the  loser  if  he  disturbed  me  in  my  employment.  For 
:a  while  things  went  on  as  smoothly  as  they  could.  I  made  a 
! pretense  that  the  work  was  harder  than  usual;  and  I  got  leave 
i  (loathing  the  sight  of  him,  I  honestly  own)  to  sleep  at  the  place 
where  I  was  employed.  This  was  not  for  long.  The  fit  took 
him  again,  in  due  course;  and  he  came  and  made  a  disturb- 
ance. As  before,  this  was  not  to  be  borne  by  decent  people. 
tAs  before,  they  were  sorry  to  part  with  me.     As  before,  I  lost 

I  my  place. 

"Another  woman  would  have  gone  mad  under  it.  I  fancy 
lit  just  missed,  by  a  hair-breadth,  maddening  Me. 

"  When  I  looked  at  him  that  night,  deep  in  his  drunken  sleep, 

II  thought  of  Jael  and  Sisera  (see  the  Book  of  Judges;  chapter 
4th  ;  verses  17  to  21).     It  says,  she  '  took  a  nail  of  the  tent,  and 

itook  a  hammer  in  her  hand,  and  went  softly  unto  him,  and 
'  smote  the  nail  into  his  temples,  and  fastened  it  into  the  ground ; 
tfor  he  was  fast  asleep  and  weary.  So  he  died.'  She  did  this 
( deed  to  deliver  her  nation  from  Sisera.  If  there  had  been  a 
1  hammer  and  a  nail  in  the  room  that  night,  I  think  I  should 
1  have  been  Jael — with  this  difference,  that  I  should  have  done 
i  it  to  deliver  myself  " 

"  With  the  morning  this  passed  off,  for  the  time.  I  went 
;  and  spoke  to  a  lawyer. 

"Most  people,  in  my  place,  would  have  had  enough  of  the 
law  already.  But  I  was  one  of  the  sort  who  drain  the  cup  to 
the  dregs.  What  I  said  to  him  was,  in  substance,  this:  'I 
come  to  ask  your  advice  about  a  madman.  Mad  people,  as  I 
understand  it,  are  people  who  have  lost  control  over  their  own 
minds.  Sometimes  this  leads  them  to  entertaining  delusions ; 
and  sometimes  it  leads  them  to  committing  actions  hurtful  to 
others  or  to  themselves.  My  husband  has  lost  all  control  over 
his  own  craving  for  strong  drink.  He  requires  to  be  kept  from 
liquor,  as  other  madmen  require  to  be  kept  from  attempting 


/ 


520  MAN    AND    WIFE. 

their  own  lives,  or  the  lives  of  those  about  them.  It's  a  frenzy 
beyond  his  own  control,  with  him — just  as  it's  a  frenzy  beyond 
their  own  control,  with  them.  There  are  Asylums  for  mad  peo- 
ple, all  over  the  country,  at  the  public  disposal,  on  certain  con- 
ditions. If  I  fulfill  those  conditions,  will  the  law  deliver  me 
from  the  misery  of  beini;  married  to  a  madman,  whose  madness 
is  drink?' — '  No,' says  the  lawyer.  'The  law  of  England  de- 
clines to  consider  an  incurable  drunkard  as  a  fit  object  for  re- 
straint; the  law  of  England  leaves  the  husbands  and  wives  of 
snch  people  in  a  perfectly  helpless  situation,  to  deal  witli  their 
own  misery  as  they  best  can.' 

"  I  made  my  acknowledgments  to  the  gentleman  and  left 
him.    The  last  chance  was  this  chance — and  this  had  failed  me. 


"  The  thought  that  had  once  found  its  way  into  my  mind 
already,  now  found  its  way  back  again ;  and  never  altogether 
left  me  from  that  time  forth.  No  deliverance  for  me  but  in 
death — his  death,  or  mine. 

"I  had  it  before  me  night  and  day;  in  chapel  and  out  of 
chapel  just  the  same.  I  read  the  story  of  Jael  and  Sisera  so 
often  that  the  Bible  got  to  open  of  itself  at  that  place. 

"The  laws  of  my  country,  which  ought  to  have  protected 
me  as  an  honest  woman,  left  me  helpless.  In  place  of  the  laws 
I  had  no  friend  near  to  open  my  heart  to.  I  was  shut  up  in 
myself  And  I  was  married  to  that  man.  Consider  me  as  a 
human  creature,  and  say,  Was  this  not  trying  my  humanity 
very  hardly  ? 

"  I  wrote  to  good  Mr.  Bapchild.  Not  going  into  particulars  ; 
only  telling  him  I  was  beset  by  temptation,  and  begging  him 
to  come  and  help  me.  He  was  confined  to  his  bed  by  illness; 
he  could  only  write  me  a  letter  of  good  advice.  To  profit  by 
good  advice,  people  must  have  a  glimpse  of  happiness  to  look 
forward  to  as  a  reward  for  exerting  themselves.  Religion  it- 
self is  obliged  to  hold  out  a  reward,  and  to  say  to  us  poor 
mortals.  Be  good,  and  you  shall  go  to  heaven.  I  had  no 
glimpse  of  happiness.  I  was  thankful  (in  a  dull  sort  of  Avay) 
to  good  Mr.  Bapchild — and  there  it  ended. 

"The  time  had  been  when  a  word  from  my  old  pastor  would 
have  put  me  in  the  right  way  again.  I  began  to  feel  scared  by 
myself  If  the  next  ill  usage  I  received  from  Joel  Dethridge 
found  me  an  unchanged  woman,  it  was  borne  in  strongly  on 
my  mind  that  I  should  be  as  likely  as  not  to  get  my  deliver- 
ance from  him  by  my  own  hand. 

"  Goaded  to  it,  by  the  fear  of  this,  I  humbled  myself  before 
my  relations  for  the  first  time.  I  wrote  to  beg  their  pardon ; 
to  own  that  they  had  proved  to  be  right  in  their  opinion  of  my 


MAN    AND    WIFE.  521 

ihusband ;  and  to  entreat  them  to  be  friends  with  me  again,  so 
far  as  to  lot  me  visit  them  from  time  to  time.  My  notion  was, 
that  it  might  soften  my  heart  if  I  could  see  the  old  place,  and 
talk  the  ofd  talk,  and  look  again  at  the  well-remembered  faces. 
I  am  almost  ashamed  to  own  it — but,  if  I  had  had  any  thing 
to  give,  I  would  have  parted  with  it  all,  to  be  allowed  to  go 
back  into  mother's  kitchen  and.  cook  the  Sunday  dinner  for 
them  once  more. 

"  But  this  was  not  to  be.  Not  long  before  my  letter  was  re- 
ceived mother  had  died.  They  laid  it  all  at  my  door.  She 
had  been  ailing  for  years  past,  and  the  doctors  had  said  it  was 
hopeless  from  the  first — but  they  laid  it  all  at  my  door.  One 
of  ray  sisters  wrote  to  say  that  much,  in  as  few  words  as  could 
possibly  suffice  for  saying  it.  My  father  never  answered  my 
letter  at  all. 

9. 

"Magistrates  and  lawyers;  relations  and  friends;  endurance 
of  injuries,  patience,  hope,  and  honest  work — I  had  tried  all 
these,  and  tried  them  vainly.  Look  round  me  where  I  might, 
the  prospect  was  closed  on  all  sides. 

[  "At  this  time  my  husband  had  got  a  little  work  to  do.  He 
came  home  out  of  temper  one  night,  and  I  gave  him  a  warn- 
ing. '  Don't  try  me  too  far,  Joel,  for  your  own  sake,'  was  all  I 
said.  It  was  one  of  his  sober  days ;  and  for  the  first  time  a 
word  from  me  seemed  to  have  an  efiect  on  him.  He  looked 
hard  at  me  for  a  minute  or  so.  And  then  he  went  and  sat 
down  in  a  corner,  and  held  his  peace. 

"  This  was  on  a  Tuesday  in  the  week.  On  the  Saturday  he 
got  paid,  and  the  drinking  fit  took  him  again. 

"  On  Friday  in  the  next  week  I  happened  to  come  back  late 
— having  had  a  good  stroke  of  work  to  do  that  day,  in  the  way 
of  cooking  a  public  dinner  for  a  tavern-keeper  who  knew  me. 
II  found  my  husband  gone,  and  the  bedroom  stripped  of  the 
furniture  which  I  had  put  into  it.  For  the  second  time  he 
had  rol)bed  me  of  my  own  property,  and  had  turned  it  into 
I  money  to  be  spent  in  drink. 

"  I  didn't  say  a  word.  I  stood  and  looked  round  the  empty 
iroom.  What  was  going  on  in  me  I  hardly  knew  myself  at  the 
time,  and  can't  describe  now.  All  I  remember  is,  that,  after  a 
little,  I  turned  about  to  leave  the  house.  I  knew  the  places 
where  my  husband  was  likely  to  be  found ;  and  the  devil  pos- 
sessed me  to  go  and  find  him.  The  landlady  came  out  into  the 
passage  and  tried  to  stop  me.  She  was  a  bigger  and  a  stronger 
woman  than  I  was.  But  I  shook  her  ofi"  like  a  child.  Think- 
ing over  it  now,  I  believe  she  was  in  no  condition  to  put  out 
her  strength.     The  sight  of  me  frightened  her. 


522  MAN    AND    WIFE. 

"  I  found  him.  I  said — well,  I  said  what  a  woman  beside 
herself  with  fury  would  be  likely  to  say.  It's  needless  to  tell 
how  it  ended.     He  knocked  me  down. 

"After  that,  there  is  a  spot  cf  darkness  like  in  my  memory. 
The  next  thing  I  can  call  to  mind,  is  coming  back  to  my  senses 
after  some  days.  Three  of  my  teeth  were  knocked  out — but 
that  was  not  the  worst  of  it.  My  head  had  struck  against 
something  in  falling,  and  some  part  of  me  (a  nerve,  I  think 
they  said)  was  injured  in  such  a  way  as  to  affect  my  speech. 
I  don't  mean  that  I  was  downright  dumb — I  only  mean  that, 
all  of  a  sudden,  it  had  become  a  labor  to  me  to  sjieak.  A  long 
word  was  as  serious  an  obstacle  as  if  I  was  a  child  again.  They 
took  me  to  the  hospital.  When  the  medical  gentlemen  heard 
what  it  was,  the  medical  gentlemen  came  crowding  round  me. 
I  appeared  to  lay  hold  of  their  interest,  just  as  a  story-book 
lays  hold  of  the  interest  of  other  people.  The  upshot  of  it 
w^as,  that  I  might  end  in  being  dumb,  or  I  might  get  my  speech 
again — the  chances  were  about  equal.  Only  two  things  were 
needful.  One  of  them  was,  that  I  should  live  on  good  nourish- 
ing diet.     The  other  was,  that  I  should  keep  my  mind  easy. 

"About  the  diet  it  was  not  possible  to  decide.  My  getting 
good  nourishing  food  and  drink  depended  on  my  getting  money 
to  buy  the  same.  As  to  my  mind,  there  was  no  difficulty 
about  that.  If  my  husband  came  back  to  me,  my  mind  was 
made  up  to  kill  him. 

"  Horrid — I  am  well  aware  this  is  horrid.  Nobody  else,  in 
my  place,  would  have  ended  as  wickedly  as  that.  All  the  oth- 
er women  in  the  world,  tried  as  I  was,  would  have  risen  su- 
perior to  the  trial. 

10. 

"  I  have  said  that  people  (excepting  my  husband  and  my  re- 
lations) were  almost  always  good  to  me. 

"  The  landlord  of  the  house  which  we  had  taken  when  we 
were  married  heard  of  my  sad  case.  He  gave  me  one  of  his 
empty  houses  to  look  after,  and  a  little  weekly  allowance  for 
doing  it.  Some  of  the  furniture  in  the  upper  rooms,  not  being 
wanted  by  the  last  tenant,  was  left  to  be  taken  at  a  valuation 
if  the  next  tenant  needed  it.  Two  of  the  servants'  bedrooms 
(in  the  attics),  one  next  to  the  other,  had  all  that  was  wanted 
in  them.  So  I  had  a  roof  to  cover  me,  and  a  choice  of  beds  lo 
lie  on,  and  money  to  get  me  food.  All  well  again — but  all  too 
late.  If  that  house  could  speak,  what  tales  that  house  would 
have  to  tell  of  me  ! 

"I  have  been  told  by  the  doctors  to  exercise  my  speech. 
Being  all  alone,  with  nobody  to  speak  to,  except  when  the 
landlord  dropped  in,  or  when  the  servant  next  door  said,  *  JsTice 


MAN   AND   WIFE.  523 

day,  ain't  it  ?'  or, '  Don't  you  feel  lonely  ?'  or  such  like, I  bought 
the  newspaper,  and  read  it  out  loud  to  myself  to  exercise  my 
speech  in  that  way.  One  day  I  came  upon  a  bit  about  the 
wives  of  drunken  husbands.  It  was  a  report  of  something 
said  on  that  subject  by  a  London  coroner,  who  had  held  in- 
quests on  dead  husbands  (in  the  lower  ranks  of  life),  and  who 
had  his  reasons  for  suspecting  the  wives.  Examination  of  the 
body  (he  said)  didn't  prove  it;  and  witnesses  didn't  prove  it; 
but  he  thought  it,  nevertheless,  quite  possible,  in  some  cases, 
that,  when  the  woman  could  bear  it  no  longer,  she  sometimes 
took  a  damp  towel,  and  waited  till  the  husband  (drugged  with 
his  own  liquor)  was  sunk  in  his  sleep,  and  then  put  the  towel 
over  his  nose  and  mouth,  and  ended  it  that  way  without  any 
body  being  the  wiser.  I  laid  down  the  newspaper,  and  fell 
into  thinking.  My  mind  was,  by  this  time,  in  a  prophetic  way. 
I  said  to  myself, '  I  haven't  happened  on  this  for  nothing :  this 
means  that  I  shall  see  my  husband  again.' 

"It  was  then  just  after  my  dinner-time — two  o'clock.  The 
same  night,  at  the  moment  when  I  had  put  out  ray  candle  and 
laid  me  down  in  bed,  I  heard  a  knock  at  the  street  door.  Be- 
fore I  had  lit  my  caudle  I  says  to  myself, '  Here  he  is.' 

"I  huddled  on  a  few  things,  and  struck  a  light,  and  went 
down  stairs.  I  called  out  through  the  door,  '  Who's  there  ?' 
And  his  voice  answered, 'Let  me  in.' 

"  I  sat  down  on  a  chair  in  the  passage,  and  shook  all  over 
like  a  person  struck  with  palsy.  Not  from  the  fear  of  him— 
but  from  my  mind  being  in  the  prophetic  way.  I  knew  I  was 
going  to  be  driven  to  it  at  last.  Try  as  I  might  to  keep  from 
doing  it,  ray  mind  told  rae  I  was  to  do  it  now.  I  sat  shaking 
on  the  chair  in  the  passage ;  I  on  one  side  of  the  door,  and  he 
on  the  other. 

"  He  knocked  again,  and  again,  and  again.  I  knew  it  was 
useless  to  try — and  yet  I  resolved  to  try.  I  determined  not 
to  let  him  in  till  I  was  forced  to  it.  I  determined  to  let  hira 
alarm  the  neighborhood,  and  to  see  if  the  neighborhood  would 
step  between  us.  I  went  up  stairs  and  waited  at  the  open 
staircase  window  over  the  door. 

"  The  policeman  came  up,  and  the  neighbors  came  out. 
They  were  all  for  giving  hira  into  custody.  The  policeman 
laid  hands  on  him.  He  had  but  one  word  to  say  ;  he  had  only 
to  point  up  to  me  at  the  window,  and  to  tell  them  I  was  his 
wife.  The  neighbors  went  indoors  again.  The  policeman 
dropped  hold  of  his  arm.  It  was  I  who  was  in  the  wrong,  and 
not  he.  I  was  bound  to  let  my  husband  in.  I  went  down 
stairs  again,  and  let  him  in, 

"Nothing  passed  between  us  that  night.  I  threw  open  the 
dooi?  of  the  bedroom  next  to  mine,  and  went  and  locked  my- 


524  MAN   AND   WIFE. 

self  into  my  own  room.  He  was  dead  beat  with  roaming  the 
streets,  without  a  penny  in  his  pocket,  all  day  long.  The  bed 
to  lie  on  was  all  he  wanted  for  that  night. 

"  The  next  morning  I  tried  again — tried  to  turn  back  on  the 
way  that  I  was  doomed  to  go ;  knowing  beforehand  that  it 
would  be  of  no  use.  I  ofiered  him  three  parts  of  my  poor 
weekly  earnings,  to  be  paid  to  him  regularly  at  the  landlord's 
office,  if  he  would  only  keep  away  from  me  and  from  the  house. 
He  laughed  in  my  face.  As  my  husband,  he  could  take  all  my 
earnings  if  he  chose.  And  as  for  leaving  the  house,  the  house 
offered  him  free  quarters  to  live  in  as  long  as  I  was  employed 
to  look  after  it.     The  landlord  couldn't  part  man  and  wife. 

"  I  said  no  more.  Later  in  the  day  the  landlord  came.  He 
said  if  we  could  make  it  out  to  live  together  peaceably  he  had 
neither  the  right  nor  the  wish  to  interfere.  If  we  made  any 
disturbances,  then  he  should  be  obliged  to  provide  himself 
with  some  other  woman  to  look  after  the  house.  I  had  no- 
where else  to  go,  and  no  other  employment  to  undertake.  If, 
in  spite  of  that,  I  had  put  on  my  bonnet  and  walked  out,  my 
husband  would  have  walked  out  after  me.  And  all  decent 
people  would  have  patted  him  on  the  back,  and  said,  '  Quite 
right,  good  man — quite  right.' 

"  So  there  he  was  by  his  own  act,  and  with  the  approval  of 
others,  in  the  same  house  with  rae. 

"I  made  no  remark  to  him  or  to  the  landlord.  Nothing 
roused  me  now.  I  knew  what  was  coming  ;  I  waited  for  the 
end.  There  was  some  change  visible  in  me  to  others,  as  I  sup- 
pose, though  not  noticeable  by  myself,  which  first  surprised 
my  husband  and  then  daunted  him.  When  the  next  night 
came,  I  heard  him  lock  the  door  softly  in  his  own  room.  It 
didn't  matter  to  me.  When  the  time  was  ripe,  ten  thousand 
locks  wouldn't  lock  out  what  was  to  come. 

"  The  next  day  bringing  my  weekly  payment,  brought  me 
a  step  nearer  on  the  way  to  the  end.  Getting  the  money,  he 
could  get  the  drink.  This  time  he  began  cunningly — in  other 
words,  he  began  his  drinking  by  slow  degrees.  The  landlord 
(bent,  honest  man,  on  trying  to  keep  the  peace  between  us) 
had  given  him  some  odd  jobs  to  do,  in  the  way  of  small  re- 
pairs, here  and  there  about  the  house.  'You  owe  this,'  he 
says,  '  to  my  desire  to  do  a  good  turn  to  your  poor  wife.  I 
am  helping  you  for  her  sake.  Show  yourself  worthy  to  be 
helped,  if  you  can.' 

"  He  said,  as  usual,  that  he  was  going  to  turn  over  a  new 
leaf.  Too  late !  The  time  had  gone  by.  He  was  doomed, 
and  I  was  doomed.  It  didn't  matter  what  he  said  now.  It 
didn't  matter  when  he  locked  his  door  again  the  last  thing  at 
night. 


MAN    AND    WIFE.  525 

"The  next  day  was  Sunday.  Nothing  happened.  I  went 
to  chapel.  Mere  habit.  It  did  me  no  good.  He  got  on  a  lit- 
tle with  the  drinking — but  still  cunningly,  by  slow  degrees. 
I  knew  by  experience  that  this  meant  a  long  fit,  and  a  bad  one, 
to  come. 

"Monday,  there  were  the  odd  jobs  about  the  house  to  be 
begun.  He  was  by  this  time  just  sober  enough  to  do  his  work, 
and  just  tipsy  enough  to  take  a  spiteful  pleasure  in  persecuting 
his  wife.  He  went  out  and  got  the  things  he  wanted,  and 
came  back  and  called  for  me.  A  skilled  workman  like  he  was 
(he  said)  wanted  a  journeyman  under  him.  There  were  things 
which  it  was  beneath  a  skilled  workman  to  do  for  himself. 
He  was  not  going  to  call  in  a  man  or  a  boy,  and  then  liave  to 
pay  them.  He  was  going  to  get  it  done  for  nothing,  and  he 
meant  to  make  a  journeyman  of  me.  Half  tipsy  and  half  sober, 
he  went  on  talking  like  that,  and  laying  out  his  things,  all 
quite  right,  as  he  wanted  them.  When  they  were  ready  he 
straightened  himself  uj),  and  he  gave  me  his  orders  what  I  was 
to  do. 

"I  obeyed  him  to  the  best  of  my  ability.  Whatever  he  said, 
and  whatever  he  did,  I  knew  he  was  going  as  straight  as  man 
could  go  to  his  own  death  by  my  hands. 

"The  rats  and  mice  were  all  over  the  house,  and  the  place 
generally  was  out  of  repair.  He  ought  to  have  begun  on  the 
kitchen-floor ;  but  (having  sentence  pronounced  against  him) 
he  began  in  the  empty  parlors  on  the  ground-floor. 

"These  parlors  were  separated  by  what  is  called  a  '  lath-and- 
plaster  wall.'  The  rats  had  damaged  it.  At  one  part  they 
had  gnawed  through  and  spoiled  the  paper ;  at  another  part 
they  had  not  got  so  far.  The  landlord's  orders  were  to  spare 
the  paper,  because  he  had  some  by  him  to  match  it.  My  hus- 
band began  at  a  place  where  the  paper  was  whole.  Under 
his  directions  I  mixed  up — I  won't  say  what.  With  the  help 
of  it  he  got  the  paper  loose  from  the  wall,  without  injuring 
it  in  any  Avay,  in  a  long,  hanging  strip.  Under  it  was  the  plas- 
ter and  the  laths,  gnaw^ed  away  in  places  by  the  rats.  Though 
strictly  a  paper-hanger  by  trade,  he  could  be  plasterer  too 
when  he  liked.  I  saw  how  he  cut  aw^ay  the  rotten  laths  and 
ripped  off"  the  plaster ;  and  (under  his  directions  again)  I  mixed 
up  the  new  plaster  he  wanted,  and  handed  him  the  new  laths, 
and  saw  how  he  set  them.  I  won't  say  a  word  about  how 
this  was  done  either, 

"  I  have  a  reason  for  keeping  silence  here,  which  is,  to  my 
mind,  a  very  dreadful  one.  In  every  thing  that  my  husband 
made  me  do  that  day  he  was  showing  me  (blindfold)  the  way 
to  kill  him,  so  that  no  living  soul,  in  the  police  or  out  of  it, 
could  suspect  me  of  the  deed. 


526  MAN    AND    WIFE. 

"We  finished  the  job  on  the  wall  just  before  dark.  I  went 
to  my  cup  of  tea,  and  he  went  to  his  bottle  of  gin. 

"I  left  him,  drinking  hard,  to  put  our  two  bedrooms  tidy 
for  the  night.  The  place  that  his  bed  happened  to  be  set  in 
(which  I  had  never  remarked  particularly  before)  seemed,  in  a 
manner  of  speaking,  to  force  itself  on  my  notice  now. 

"  The  head  of  the  bedstead  was  set  against  the  wall  which 
divided  his  room  from  mine.  From  looking  at  the  bedstead  I 
got  to  looking  at  the  wall  next.  Then  to  wondering  what  it 
was  made  of.  Then  to  rapping  against  it  with  my  knuckles. 
The  sound  told  me  there  was  nothing  but  lath  and  plaster  un- 
der the  paper.  It  was  the  same  as  the  wall  we  had  been  at 
work  on  down  stairs.  We  had  cleared  our  way  so  far  through 
this  last — in  certain  places  where  the  repairs  were  most  needed 
— that  we  had  to  be  careful  not  to  burst  through  the  paper  in 
the  room  on  the  other  side.  I  found  myself  calling  to  mind 
the  caution  my  husband  had  given  me  while  we  were  at  this 
part  of  the  work,  word  for  word  as  he  had  spoken  it.  ^Take 
care  you  donut  find  your  hands  in  the  next  room.''  That  was 
what  he  had  said  down  in  the  parlor.  Up  in  his  bedroom  I 
kept  on  repeating  it  in  my  own  mind — with  my  eyes  all  the 
while  on  the  key,  which  he  had  moved  to  the  inner  side  of  the 
door  to  lock  himself  in — till  the  knowledge  of  what  it  meant 
burst  on  me  like  a  flash  of  light.  I  looked  at  the  wall,  at  the 
bed-head,  at  my  own  two  hands — and  I  shivered  as  if  it  was 
winter-time. 

"  Hours  must  have  passed  like  minutes  while  I  was  up  stairs 
that  night.  I  lost  all  count  of  time.  When  my  husband  came 
up  from  his  drinking,  he  found  me  in  his  room. 

12. 

"  I  leave  the  rest  untold,  and  pass  on  purposely  to  the  next 
morning. 

"No  mortal  eyes  but  mine  will  ever  see  these  lines.  Still, 
there  are  things  a  woman  can't  write  of  even  to  herself  I  shall 
only  say  this.  I  suflered  the  last  and  worst  of  many  indigni- 
ties at  my  husband's  hands — at  the  very  time  when  I  first  saw, 
set  plainly  before  me,  the  way  to  take  his  life.  He  went  out 
toward  noon  next  day,  to  go  his  rounds  among  the  public- 
houses  ;  ray  mind  being  then  strung  up  to  deliver  myself  from 
him,  for  good  and  all,  when  he  came  back  at  night. 

"The  things  we  had  used  on  the  pi-evious  day  were  left  in 
the  parlor.  1  was  all  by  myself  in  the  house,  free  to  put  in 
practice  the  lesson  he  had  taught  me.  I  proved  mj^self  an  apt 
scholar.  Before  the  lamps  were  lit  in  the  street  I  had  my  own 
way  prepared  (in  my  bedroom  and  in  his)  for  laying  my  own 
hands  on  him — after  he  had  locked  himself  up  for  the  night. 


MAN    AND    WIFE.  527 

"  T  '^cn't  remember  feeling  either  fear  or  doubt  through  all 
those  hours.  I  sat  down  to  my  bit  of  supper  with  no  better 
and  no  worse  an  appetite  than  usual.  The  only  change  in  me 
that  I  can  call  to  mind  was  that  I  felt  a  singular  longing  to 
have  somebody  with  me  to  keep  me  company.  Having  no 
friend  to  ask  in,  I  went  to  the  street  door  and  stood  looking  at 
the  people  passing  this  way  and  that. 

"A  stray  dog,  sniffing  about,  came  up  to  me.  Generally  I 
dislike  dogs  and  beasts  of  all  kinds.  I  called  this  one  in  and 
gave  him  his  supper.  He  had  been  taught  (I  suppose)  to  sit 
up  on  his  hind-legs  and  beg  for  food ;  at  any  rate,  that  was  his 
way  of  asking  me  for  more.  I  laughed — it  seems  impossible 
when  I  look  back  at  it  now,  but  for  all  that  it's  true — I  laughed 
till  the  tears  ran  down  my  cheeks,  at  the  little  beast  on  his 
haunches,  with  his  ears  pricked  up  and  his  head  on  one  side 
and  his  mouth  watering  for  the  victuals.  I  wonder  whether 
I  was  in  my  right  senses?     I  don't  know, 

"  When  the  dog  had  got  all  he  could  get,  he  whined  to  be 
let  out  to  roam  the  streets  again. 

"As  I  opened  the  door  to  let  the  creature  go  his  ways,  I 
saw  my  husband  crossing  the  road  to  come  in.  '  Keep  out ' 
(I  says  to  him) ;  '  to-night,  of  all  nights,  keep  out.'  He  was 
too  drunk  to  heed  me ;  he  passed  by,  and  blundered  his  way 
up  stairs.  I  followed  and  listened.  I  heard  hira  open  his 
door,  and  bang  it  to,  and  lock  it.  I  waited  a  bit,  and  went 
up  another  stair  or  two.  I  heard  him  drop  down  on  to  his 
bed.     In  a  minute  more  he  was  fast  asleep  and  snoring. 

"  It  had  all  happened  as  it  was  wanted  to  happen.  In  two 
minutes — without  doing  one  single  thing  to  bring  suspicion 
on  myself — I  could  have  smothered  him.  I  went  into  my 
own  room.  I  took  up  the  towel  that  I  had  laid  ready.  I  was 
within  an  inch  of  it — when  there  came  a  rush  of  something  up 
into  my  head.  I  can't  say  what  it  was.  I  can  only  say  the 
horrors  laid  hold  of  me  and  hunted  me  then  and  there  out  of 
the  house. 

"  I  put  on  my  bonnet,  and  slipped  the  key  of  the  street  door 
into  my  pocket.  It  was  only  half-past  nine — or  maybe  a  quar- 
ter to  ten.  If  I  had  any  one  clear  notion  in  my  head,  it  was 
the  notion  of  running  away,  and  never  allowing  myself  to  set 
eyes  on  the  house  or  the  husband  more. 

"  I  went  up  the  street — and  came  back.  I  went  down  the 
street  —  and  came  back.  I  tried  it  a  third  time,  and  went 
round  and  round  and  round — and  came  back.  It  was  not  to 
be  done.  The  house  held  me  chained  to  it  like  a  dog  to  his 
kennel.  I  couldn't  keep  away  from  it.  For  the  life  of  me,  I 
couldn't  keep  away  from  it. 

"A  company  of  gay  young  men  and  women  passed  me,  just 


528  MAN   AND   WIFE. 

as  I  was  going  to  let  myself  in  again.  They  were  in  a  great 
luury.  'Step  out,'  says  one  of  the  men  ;  'the  theatre's  close 
by,  and  we  shall  be  just  in  time  for  tlie  farce.'  I  turned  about 
and  followed  them.  Having  been  piously  brought  up,  I  had 
never  been  inside  a  theatre  in  my  life.  It  struck  me  that  I 
might  get  taken,  as  it  were,  out  of  myself,  if  I  saw  something 
that  was  quite  strange  to  me,  and  heard  something  which 
would  put  new  thoughts  into  my  mind. 

"  They  went  in  to  the  pit,  and  I  went  in  after  them. 

"The  thing  they  called  the  farce  had  begun.  Men  and 
women  came  on  to  the  stage,  turn  and  turn  about,  and  talked, 
and  went  off  again.  Before  long  all  the  people  about  me  in 
the  pit  were  laughing  and  clapping  their  hands.  The  noise 
they  made  angered  me.  I  don't  know  how  to  describe  the 
state  I  was  in.  My  eyes  wouldn't  serve  me,  and  my  ears 
wouldn't  serve  me,  to  see  and  to  hear  what  the  rest  of  them 
were  seeing  and  hearing.  There  must  have  been  something,  I 
fancy,  in  my  mind  that  got  itself  between  me  and  what  was 
going  on  upon  the  stage.  The  play  looked  fair  enough  on  the 
surface  ;  but  there  was  danger  and  death  at  the  bottom  of  it. 
The  players  were  talking  and  laughing  to  deceive  the  people 
— with  murder  in  their  minds  all  the  time.  And  nobody  knew 
it  but  me — and  my  tongue  was  tied  when  I  tried  to  tell  the 
others.  I  got  up,  and  ran  out.  The  moment  I  was  in  the 
street  my  steps  turned  back  of  themselves  on  the  way  to  the 
house.  I  called  a  cab,  and  told  the  man  to  drive  (as  far  as  a 
shilling  would  take  me]  the  opposite  way.  He  put  me  down 
— I  don't  know  where.  Across  the  street  I  saw  an  inseiiption 
in  letters  of  flame  over  an  open  door.  The  man  said  it  was  a 
dancing-place.  Dancing  was  as  new  to  me  as  plaj'-going.  I 
had  one  more  shilling  left ;  and  I  paid  to  go  in,  and  see  M^hat 
a  sight  of  the  dancing  would  do  for  me.  The  light  from  the 
ceiling  poured  down  in  this  place  as  if  it  was  all  on  fire.  The 
crashing  of  the  music  was  dreadful.  The  whirling  round  and 
round  of  men  and  women  in  each  other's  arms  was  quite  mad- 
dening to  see.  I  don't  know  what  happened  to  me  here.  The 
great  blaze  of  light  from  the  ceiling  turned  blood-red  on  a 
sudden.  The  man  standing  in  front  of  the  musicians  waving 
a  stick  took  the  likeness  of  Satan,  as  seen  in  the  picture  in 
our  family  Bible  at  home.  The  whirling  men  and  women 
went  round  and  round,  with  white  faces  like  the  faces  of  the 
dead,  and  bodies  robed  in  winding-sheets,  I  screamed  out 
with  the  terror  of  it ;  and  some  person  took  me  by  the  arm 
and  put  me  outside  the  door.  The  darkness  did  me  good  :  it 
was  comforting  and  delicious — like  a  cool  hand  laid  on  a  hot 
head.  I  went  walking  on  through  it,  without  knowing  where; 
composing  my  mind  with  thp  belief  that  I  had  lost  my  way. 


MAN   AND   WIFE.  529 

and  that  I  should  find  myself  miles  distant  from  home  when 
morning  dawned.  After  some  time  I  got  too  weary  to  go  on, 
and  I  sat  me  down  to  rest  on  a  door-step.  I  dozed  a  bit,  and 
woke  up.  When  I  got  on  my  feet  to  go  on  again,  I  happened 
to  turn  my  head  toward  the  door  of  the  house.  The  number 
on  it  was  the  same  number  as  ours.  I  looked  again.  And  be- 
hold, it  was  our  steps  I  had  been  resting  on.  The  door  was 
our  door. 

"All  my  doubts  and  all  my  struggles  dropped  out  of  my 
mind  when  I  made  that  discovery.  There  was  no  mistaking 
what  this  perpetual  coming  back  to  the  house  meant.  Resist 
it  as  I  might,  it  was  to  be. 

"  I  opened  the  street  door  and  went  up  stairs,  and  heard  him 
sleeping  his  heavy  sleep,  exactly  as  I  had  heard  him  when  I 
went  out.  I  sat  down  on  my  bed  and  took  off  my  bonnet, 
quite  quiet  in  myself,  because  I  knew  it  was  to  be.  I  damped 
the  towel  and  put  it  ready,  and  took  a  turn  in  the  room. 

"It  was  just  the  dawn  of  day.  The  sparrows  were  chirpiug 
among  the  trees  in  the  square  hard  by. 

"  I  drew  up  my  blind ;  the  faint  light  spoke  to  me  as  if  in 
words,  '  Do  it  now,  before  I  get  brighter,  and  show  too  much.' 

"  I  listened.  The  friendly  silence  had  a  word  for  me  too  : 
'Do  it  now,  and  trust  the  secret  to  Me.' 

"  I  waited  till  the  church  clock  chimed  before  striking  the 
hour.  At  the  first  stroke — without  touching  the  lock  of  his 
door,  without  setting  foot  in  his  room — I  had  the  towel  over 
his  face.  Before  the  last  stroke  he  had  ceased  struggling. 
When  the  hum  of  the  bell  through  the  morning  silence  was 
still  and  dead,  he  was  still  and  dead  with  it. 

13. 

"  The  rest  of  this  history  is  counted  in  my  mind  by  four 
days — Wednesday,  Thursday,  Friday,  Saturday.  After  that 
it  all  fades  off  like,  and  the  new  years  come  with  a  strange 
look,  being  the  years  of  a  new  life. 

"  What  about  the  old  life  first  ?  What  did  I  feel,  in  the 
horrid  quiet  of  the  morning,  when  I  had  done  it? 

"  I  don't  know  what  I  felt.  I  can't  remember  it,  or  I  can't 
tell  it,  I  don't  know  which.  I  can  write  the  history  of  the 
four  days,  and  that's  all. 

"Wednesday. — I  gave  the  alarm  toward  noon.  Hours  be- 
fore, I  had  put  things  straight  and  fit  to  be  seen.  I  had  only 
to  call  for  lielp,  and  to  leave  the  people  to  do  as  they  pleased. 
The  neighbors  came  in,  and  then  the  police.  They  knocked, 
uselessly,  at  his  door.  Then  they  broke  it  open,  and  found 
him  dead  in  his  bed. 

"  Not  the  ghost  of  a  suspicion  of  me  entered  the  mind  of 

34 


530  MAN    AND   WIFE. 

any  one.  There  was  no  fear  of  human  justice  finding  me  out : 
my  one  unutterable  di-ead  was  dread  of  an  Avenging  Provi- 
dence. I  had  a  short  sloop  that  night,  and  a  dream,  in  which 
I  did  the  deed  over  again.  For  a  time  my  mind  was  busy 
with  thoughts  of  confessing  to  the  police,  and  of  giving  myself 
up.  If  I  had  not  belonged  to  a  respectable  family,  I  should 
have  done  it.  From  generation  to  generation  there  had  been 
no  stain  on  our  good  name.  It  would  be  death  to  my  father, 
and  disgrace  to  all  my  family,  if  I  owned  what  I  had  done,  and 
suffered  for  it  on  the  public  scaffold.  I  prayed  to  be  guided ; 
and  I  had  a  revelation,  toward  morning,  of  what  to  do. 

"  I  was  commanded,  in  a  vision,  to  open  the  Bible,  and  vow 
on  it  to  set  my  guilty  self  apart  among  my  innocent  fellow- 
creatures  from  that  day  forth  ;  to  live  among  them  a  separate 
and  silent  life ;  to  dedicate  the  use  of  my  speech  to  the  lan- 
guage of  prayer  only,  offered  up  in  the  solitude  of  my  own 
chamber,  when  no  human  ear  could  hear  me.  Alone,  in  the 
morning,  I  saw  the  vision,  and  vowed  the  vow.  No  human 
ear  has  heard  me  from  that  time.  No  human  ear  icill  hear 
me,  to  the  day  of  my  death. 

"  Thursday. — The  people  came  to  speak  to  me,  as  usual. 
They  found  me  dumb, 

"  What  had  happened  to  me  in  the  past,  when  my  head  had 
been  hurt,  and  my  speech  affected  by  it,  gave  a  likelier  look 
to  my  dumbness  than  it  might  have  borne  in  the  case  of  an- 
other person.  They  took  me  back  again  to  the  hospital.  The 
doctors  were  divided  in  opinion.  Some  said  the  shock  of  what 
had  taken  place  in  the  house,  coming  on  the  back  of  the  other 
shock,  might,  for  all  they  knew,  have  done  the  mischief.  And 
others  said,  'She  got  her  speech  again  after  the  accident; 
there  has  been  no  new  injury  since  that  time ;  the  woman  is 
shamming  dumb,  for  some  purpose  of  her  own.'  I  let  them 
dispute  it  as  they  liked.  All  human  talk  was  nothing  now  to 
me.  I  had  set  myself  apart  among  my  fellow-creatures;  I 
had  begun  my  separate  and  silent  life. 

"  Through  all  this  time  the  sense  of  a  coming  punishment 
hanging  over  me  never  left  my  mind,  I  had  nothing  to  dread 
from  human  justice.  The  judgment  of  an  Avenging  Provi- 
dence— there  was  what  I  was  waiting  for. 

"  Friday. — They  held  the  inquest.  He  had  been  known  for 
years  past  as  an  inveterate  drunkard  ;  he  had  been  seen  over- 
night going  home  in  liquor ;  he  had  been  found  locked  up  in 
his  room,  with  the  key  inside  the  door,  and  the  latch  of  the 
window  bolted  also.  No  fire-place  was  in  this  garret;  nothing 
was  disturbed  or  altered ;  nobody  by  human  possibility  could 
have  got  in.  The  doctor  reported  that  he  had  died  of  conges- 
tion of  the  lungs ;  and  the  jury  gave  their  verdict  accordingly 


MAN    AND    WIFE.  531 


14. 


"Saturday. — Marked  forever  in  my  calendar  as  the  memo- 
rable day  on  which  the  judgment  descended  on  me.  Toward 
three  o'clock  in  the  afternoon — in  the  broad  sunlight,  under 
the  cloudless  sky,  with  hundreds  of  innocent  human  creatures 
all  around  me — I,  Hester  Dethridge,  saw,  for  the  first  time,  the 
Appearance  which  is  appointed  to  haunt  me  for  the  rest  of  my 
life. 

"  I  had  had  a  terrible  night.  My  mind  felt  much  as  it  had 
felt  on  the  evening  when  I  h.ad  gone  to  the  play.  I  went  out 
to  see  what  the  air  and  the  sunshine  and  the  cool  green  of 
trees  and  grass  would  do  for  me.  The  nearest  place  in  which 
I  could  find  what  I  wanted  was  the  Regent's  Park.  I  went 
into  one  of  the  quiet  walks  in  the  middle  of  the  park,  where 
the  horses  and  carriages  are  not  allowed  to  go,  and  where  old 
people  can  sun  themselves,  and  children  play,  without  danger. 

"  I  sat  me  down  to  rest  on  a  bench.  Among  the  children 
near  me  was  a  beautiful  little  boy,  playing  with  a  brand-new 
toy — a  horse  and  wagon.  While  I  was  watching  him  busily 
plucking  up  the  blades  of  grass  and  loading  his  wagon  with 
them,  I  felt  for  the  first  time — what  I  have  often  and  often  felt 
since — a  creeping  chill  come  slowly  over  ray  flesh,  and  then  a 
suspicion  of  something  hidden  near  me,  which  would  steal  out 
and  show  itself  if  I  looked  that  way. 

"There  was  a  big  tree  hard  by.  I  looked  toward  the 
tree,  and  waited  to  see  the  something  hidden  appear  from  be- 
hind it. 

"The  Thing  stole  out,  dark  and  shadowy  in  the  pleasant 
sunlight.  At  first  I  saw  only  the  dim  figure  of  a  woman.  Af- 
ter a  little  it  began  to  get  plainer,  brightening  from  within 
outward — brightening,  brightening,  brightening,  till  it  set  be- 
fore me  the  vision  of  my  own  self,  rej^eated  as  if  I  was  stand- 
ing before  a  glass — the  double  of  myself,  looking  at  me  with 
my  own  eyes.  I  saw  it  move  over  the  grass.  I  saw  it  stop 
behind  the  beautiful  little  boy.  I  saw  it  stand  and  listen,  as  I 
had  stood  and  listened  at  the  dawn  of  morning,  for  the  chim- 
ing of  the  bell  before  the  clock  struck  the  hour.  When  it 
heard  the  stroke  it  pointed  down  to  the  boy  with  my  own 
hand  ;  and  it  said  to  me,  with  my  own  voice, '  Kill  him.' 

"A  time  passed.  I  don't  know  whether  it  was  a  minute  or 
an  hour.  The  heavens  and  the  earth  disappeared  from  before 
me.  I  saw  nothing  but  the  double  of  myself,  with  the  point- 
ing hand.     I  felt  nothing  but  the  longing  to  kill  the  boy. 

"  Then,  as  it  seemed,  the  heavens  and  the  earth  rushed  back 
upon  me.  I  saw  the  people  near  staring  in  surprise  at  me,  and 
wondering  if  I  was  in  my  right  mind. 


5.12  MAN    AND   WIFE. 

"I  got^  by  main  force,  to  m-,'-  feet ;  I  looked,  by  main  force, 
away  from  the  beautiful  boy ;  I  escaped,  by  main  force,  from 
the  siglit  of  t])e  Thing,  back  into  the  streets.  I  can  only  de- 
scribe the  overpowering  strength  of  the  temptation  that  tried 
me  in  one  way.  It  was  like  tearing  the  life  out  of  me  to  tear 
myself  from  killing  the  boy.  And  what  it  was  on  this  occa- 
sion it  has  been  ever  since.  No  remedy  against  it  but  in  that 
torturing  effort,  and  no  quenching  the  after-agony  but  by  soli- 
tude and  prayer, 

"  The  sense  of  a  coming  punishment  had  hung  over  me.  And 
the  punishment  had  come.  I  had  waited  for  the  judgment  of 
an  Avenging  Providence.  And  the  judgment  was  pronounced. 
With  pious  David  I  could  now  say,  Thy  fierce  wrath  goeth 
over  me;  thy  terrors  have  cut  me  off" 

Arrived  at  that  point  in  the  narrative,  Geoffrey  looked  up 
from  the  manuscript  for  the  first  time.  Some  sound  outside 
the  room  had  disturbed  him.     Was  it  a  sound  in  the  passage? 

He  listened.  There  was  an  interval  of  silence.  He  looked 
back  again  at  the  Confession,  turning  over  the  last  leaves  to 
count  how  much  was  left  of  it  before  it  came  to  an  end. 

After  relating  the  circumstances  under  which  the  writer  had 
returned  to  domestic  service,  the  narrative  was  resumed  no 
more.  Its  few  remaining  pages  were  occupied  by  a  fragment- 
ary journal.  The  brief  entries  all  referred  to  the  various 
occasions  'on  which  Hester  Dethridge  had  again  and  again 
seen  the  terrible  apparition  of  herself,  and  had  again  and  again 
resisted  the  homicidal  frenzy  roused  in  her  by  the  hideous 
creation  of  her  own  distempered  brain.  In  the  effort  which 
that  resistance  cost  her  lay  the  secret  of  her  obstinate  deter- 
mination to  insist  on  being  freed  from  her  work  at  certain 
times,  and  to  make  it  a  condition  with  any  mistress  who  em- 
ployed her  that  she  should  be  privileged  to  sleep  in  a  room  of 
her  own  at  night.  Having  counted  the  pages  thus  filled,  Geof- 
frey turned  back  to  the  place  at  which  he  had  left  off,  to  read 
the  manuscript  through  to  the  end. 

As  his  eyes  rested  on  the  first  line  the  noise  in  the  passage 
— intermitted  for  a  moment  only — disturbed  him  again. 

This  time  there  was  no  doubt  of  what  the  sound  implied. 
He  heard  her  hurried  footsteps;  he  heard  her  dreadful  cry. 
Hester  Dethridge  had  woke  in  her  chair  in  the  parlor,  and 
had  discovered  that  the  Confession  was  no  longer  in  her  own 
hands. 

He  put  the  manuscript  into  the  breast-pocket  of  his  coat. 
On  this  occasion  his  reading  had  been  of  some  use  to  him. 
Needless  to  go  on  further  with  it.  Needless  to  return  to  the 
Newgate  Calendar,     The  problem  was  solved, 


MAN   AND    WIFE.  533 

As  he  rose  to  his  feet  his  heavy  face  brightened  slowly  with 
a  terrible  smile.  While  the  woman's  Confession  was  in  his 
pocket  the  woman  herself  was  in  his  power.  "If  she  wants 
it  back,"  he  said,  "she  must  get  it  on  my  terms."  With  that 
resolution  he  opened  the  door  and  met  Hester  Dethridge  face 
to  face  in  the  passage. 


CHAPTER  THE  FIFTY-FIFTH. 

THE    SIGNS    OF   THE    END. 

The  servant,  appearing  the  next  morning  in  Anne's  room 
with  the  breakfast  tray,  closed  the  door  with  an  air  of  mys- 
tery, and  announced  that  strange  things  were  going  on  in  the 
house. 

"  Did  you  hear  nothing  last  night,  ma'am,"  she  asked,  "  down 
stairs  in  the  passage  ?" 

"  I  thought  I  heard  some  voices  whispering  outside  my 
lOom,"  Anne  replied.     "  Has  any  thing  happened  ?" 

Extricated  from  the  confusion  in  wliich  she  involved  it,  the 
girl's  narrative  amounted  in  substance  to  this :  She  had  been 
startled  by  the  sudden  appearance  of  her  mistress  in  the  pas- 
sage, staring  about  her  wildly,  like  a  woman  who  had  gone 
out  of  her  senses.  Almost  at  the  same  moment  "  the  master  " 
had  flung  open  the  drawing-room  door.  He  had  caught  Mrs. 
Dethridge  by  the  arm,  had  dragged  her  into  the  room,  and  had 
closed  the  door  again.  After  the  two  had  remained  shut  up 
together  for  more  than  half  an  hour,  Mrs.  Dethridge  had  come 
out  as  pale  as  ashes,  and  had  gone  up  stairs  trembling  like  a 
person  in  great  terror.  Some  time  later,  when  the  servant  was 
in  bed,  but  not  asleep,  she  had  seen  a  light  under  her  door,  in 
the  narrow  wooden  passage  which  separated  Anne's  bedroom 
from  Hester's  bedroom,  and  by  which  she  obtained  access  to 
her  own  little  sleeping-chamber  beyond.  She  had  got  out  of 
bed ;  had  looked  through  the  key-hole ;  and  had  seen  "  the 
master"  and  Mrs.  Dethridge  standing  together  examining  the 
walls  of  the  passage.  "The  master"  had  laid  his  hand  upon 
the  wall,  on  the  side  of  his  wife's  room,  and  had  looked  at  Mrs. 
Dethridge.  And  Mrs.  Dethridge  had  looked  back  at  hira,  and 
had  shaken  her  head.  Upon  that  he  had  said  in  a  whisper 
(still  with  his  hand  on  the  wooden  wall),  "  Not  to  be  done 
here  ?"  And  Mrs.  Dethridge  had  shaken  her  head.  He  had 
considered  a  moment,  and  had  whispered  again,  "  The  other 
room  will  do,  won't  it  ?"  And  Mrs.  Dethridge  had  nodded  her 
head — and  so  they  had  parted.  That  was  the  story  of  the 
pight.     Early  in  the  moniing,  more  strange  things  had  hap' 


534  MAN    AND    WIFE. 

pened.  The  master  had  gone  out,  with  a  large  sealed  packet 
in  his  hand,  covered  with  many  stamps;  taking  his  own  letter 
to  the  post,  instead  of  sending  the  servant  with  it  as  usual. 
On  his  return,  Mrs.  Dethridge  had  gone  out  next,  and  had 
come  back  with  something  in  a  jar  which  she  had  locked  up  in 
her  own  sitting-room.  Shortly  afterward,  a  working-man  had 
brought  a  bundle  of  laths,  and  some  mortar  and  plaster  of 
Paris,  which  had  been  carefully  placed  together  in  a  corner  of 
the  scullery.  Last,  and  most  remarkable  in  the  series  of  do- 
mestic events,  the  girl  had  received  permission  to  go  home 
and  see  her  friends  in  the  country,  on  that  very  day ;  having 
been  previously  informed,  when  she  entered  Mrs.  Dethridge's 
service,  that  she  was  not  to  expect  to  have  a  holiday  granted 
to  her  until  after  Christmas.  Such  were  the  strange  things 
which  had  happened  in  the  house  since  the  previous  night. 
What  was  the  interpretation  to  be  placed  on  them  ? 

The  right  interpretation  was  not  easy  to  discover. 

Some  of  the  events  pointed  apparently  toward  coming  re- 
pairs or  alterations  in  the  cottage.  But  what  Geoffrey  could 
have  to  do  with  them  (being  at  the  time  served  with  a  notice 
to  quit),  and  why  Hester  Dethridge  should  have  shown  the 
violent  agitation  which  had  been  described,  were  mysteries 
which  it  was  impossible  to  penetrate. 

Anne  dismissed  the  girl  with  a  little  present  and  a  few  kind 
words.  Under  other  circumstances,  the  incomprehensible  pi'o- 
ceedings  in  the  house  might  have  made  her  seriously  uneasy. 
But  her  mind  was  now  occupied  by  more  jiressing  anxieties. 
Blanche's  second  letter  (received  from  Hester  Dethridge  on 
the  previous  evening)  informed  her  that  Sir  Patrick  persisted 
in  his  resolution,  and  that  he  and  his  niece  might  be  expected, 
come  what  might  of  it,  to  present  themselves  at  the  cottage  on 
that  day. 

Anne  opened  the  letter  and  looked  at  it  for  the  second  time. 
The  passages  relating  to  Sir  Patrick  were  expressed  in  these 
terms : 

"  I  don't  think,  darling,  you  have  any  idea  of  the  interest 
that  you  have  roused  in  my  uncle.  Although  he  has  not  to 
reproach  himself,  as  I  have,  with  being  the  miserable  cause  of 
the  sacrifice  that  you  have  made,  he  is  quite  as  wretched  and 
quite  as  anxious  about  you  as  I  am.  We  talk  of  nobody  else. 
He  said  last  night  that  he  did  not  believe  there  was  your  equal 
in  the  world.  Think  of  that  from  a  man  who  has  such  terribly 
sharp  eyes  for  the  faults  of  women  in  general,  and  such  a  ter- 
ribly sharp  tongue  in  talking  of  them  I  I  am  pledged  to  secrecy ; 
but  I  must  tell  you  one  other  thing  between  ourselves.  Lord 
Holchester's  announcement  that  his  brother  refuses  to  consent 
to  a  separation  put  my  uncle  almost  beside  himself.    If  there 


MAN    AND    WIFE.  535 

is  not  some  change  for  the  better  in  your  life  in  a  few  days* 
time,  Sir  Patrick  will  find  out  a  way  of  his  own — lawful  or  not, 
he  doesn't  care — for  rescuing  you  from  the  dreadful  position 
in  which  you  are  placed,  and  Arnold  (with  my  full  approval) 
will  help  him.  As  we  understand  it,  you  are,  under  one  pre- 
tense or  another,  kept  a  close  prisoner.  Sir  Patrick  has  already 
secured  a  post  of  observation  near  you.  He  and  Arnold  went 
all  round  the  cottage  last  night,  and  examined  a  door  in  your 
back  garden  wall,  with  a  locksmith  to  help  them.  You  will 
no  doubt  hear  further  about  this  from  Sir  Patrick  himself  Pray 
don't  appear  to  know  any  thing  of  it  when  you  see  him  !  I 
am  not  in  his  confidence — but  Arnold  is,  which  comes  to  tlie 
same  thing  exactly.  You  will  see  us  (I  mean  you  will  see  my 
uncle  and  me)  to-morrow,  in  spite  of  the  brute  who  keeps  you 
under  lock  and  key.  Arnold  will  not  accompany  us ;  he  is  not 
to  be  trusted  (he  owns  it  himself)  to  control  his  indignation. 
Courage,  dearest !  There  are  two  people  in  the  world  to  whom 
you  are  inestimably  precious,  and  who  are  determined  not  to 
let  your  happiness  be  sacrificed.  I  am  one  of  them,  and  (foi 
Heaven's  sake  keep  this  a  secret  also  !)  Sir  Patrick  is  the  othei'." 

Absorbed  in  the  letter,  and  in  the  conflict  of  opposite  feelincrs 
which  it  roused — her  color  rising  when  it  turned  her  though, 
inward  on  herself,  and  fading  again  when  she  was  reminded 
by  it  of  the  coming  visit — x\nne  was  called  back  to  a  sense  of 
present  events  by  the  re-appearance  of  the  servant,  charged 
with  a  message.  Mi*.  Speedwell  had  been  for  some  time  in  the 
cottage,  and  he  was  now  waiting  to  see  her  down  stairs. 

Anne  found  the  surgeon  alone  in  the  drawing-room.  He 
apologized  for  disturbing  her  at  that  early  hour. 

"  It  was  impossible  for  me  to  get  to  Fulham  yesterday,"  he 
said,  "and  I  could  only  make  sure  of  complying  with  Lord 
Holchester's  request  by  coming  here  before  the  time  at  which 
I  receive  patients  at  home.  I  have  seen  Mr.  Delamayn,  and  I 
have  requested  permission  to  say  a  word  to  you  on  the  subject 
of  his  health." 

Anne  looked  through  the  window,  and  saw  GeoflTrey  smoking 
his  pipe — not  in  the  back  garden,  as  usual,  but  in  front  of  the 
cottage,  where  he  could  keep  his  eye  on  the  gate. 

"Is  he  ill?"  she  asked. 

"He  is  seriously  ill,"  answered  Mr.  Speedwell.  "I  should 
not  otherwise  have  troubled  you  with  this  interview.  It  is  a 
matter  of  professional  duty  to  warn  you,  as  his  wife,  that  he  is 
in  danger.  He  may  be  seized  at  any  moment  by  a  paralytic 
stroke.  The  only  chance  for  him — a  very  poor  one,  I  am  bound 
to  say — is  to  make  him  alter  his  present  mode  of  life  without 
loss  of  time." 

"In  one  way  he  will  be  obliged  to   alter  it,"  said  Anue. 


636  MAN    AND    WIFE. 

"He  has  received  notice  from  the  landlady  to  quit  this  cot- 
tage." 

Mr.  Speedwell  looked  surprised. 

"  I  think  you  will  find  that  the  notice  has  been  withdrawn," 
he  said.  "I  can  only  assure  you  that  Mr.  Delamayu  distinctly 
informed  me,  when  I  advised  change  of  air,  that  he  had  decided, 
for  reasons  of  his  own,  on  remaining  here," 

(Another  in  the  series  of  incomprehensible  domestic  events  ! 
Hester  Dethridge — on  all  other  occasions  the  most  immovable 
of  women — had  changed  her  mind  !) 

"  Setting  that  aside,"  proceeded  the  surgeon,  "  there  are  two 
preventive  measures  which  I  feel  bound  to  suggest.  Mr.  Dela- 
mayn  is  evidently  suffering  (though  he  declines  to  admit  it 
himself)  from  mental  anxiety.  If  he  is  to  have  a  chance  for  his 
life,  that  anxiety  must  be  set  at  rest.  Is  it  in  your  power  to 
relieve  it  ?" 

"It  is  not  even  in  my  power,  Mr.  Speedwell,  to  tell  you 
what  it  is." 

The  surgeon  bowed,  and  went  on  : 

"  The  second  caution  that  I  have  to  give  you,"  he  said,  "  is 
to  keep  him  from  drinking  spirits.  He  admits  having  com- 
mitted an  excess  in  that  way  the  night  before  last.  In  his 
state  of  health,  drinking  means  literally  death.  If  he  goes 
back  to  the  brandy-bottle — forgive  me  for  saying  it  plainly; 
the  matter  is  too  serious  to  be  trifled  with — if  he  goes  back  to 
the  brandy-bottle,  his  life,  in  my  opinion,  is  not  worth  iive 
minutes'  purchase.     Can  you  keep  him  from  drinking  ?" 

Anne  answered  sadly  and  plainly  : 

"  I  have  no  influence  over  him.  The  terms  we  are  living  on 
here — " 

Mr.  Speedwell  considerately  stopped  her. 

"  I  understand,"  he  said.  "  I  will  see  his  brother  on  my  way 
home."  He  looked  for  a  moment  at  Anne.  "  You  are  far  from 
well  yourself,"  he  resumed.     "  Can  I  do  any  thing  for  you  ?" 

"  While  I  am  living  my  present  life,  Mr.  Speedwell,  not  even 
your  skill  can  help  me." 

The  surgeon  took  his  leave.  Anne  hurried  back  up  stairs, 
before  Geoffrey  could  re-enter  the  cottage.  To  see  the  man 
who  had  laid  her  life  waste — to  meet  the  vindictive  hatred 
that  looked  furtively  at  her  out  of  his  eyes — at  the  moment 
when  sentence  of  death  had  been  pronounced  on  him,  was  an 
ordeal  from  which  every  finer  instinct  in  her  nature  shrank  in 
horror. 

Hour  by  hour  the  morning  wore  on,  and  he  made  no  attempt 
to  communicate  with  her.  Stranger  still,  Hester  Dethridge 
never  appeared.  The  servant  came  up  stairs  to  say  good-bye; 
and  went  away  for  her  holiday.     Shortly  afterward,  cei'tain 


MAN    AND    WIFE.  537 

sounds  reached  Anne's  ears  from  the  opposite  side  of  the  pas- 
sage. She  heard  the  strokes  of  a  hammer,  and  then  a  noise  as 
of  some  heavy  piece  of  furniture  being  moved.  The  mysterious 
repairs  were  apparently  being  begun  in  the  spare  room. 

She  went  to  the  window.  The  hour  was  approaching  at 
which  Sir  Patrick  and  Blanche  might  be  expected  to  make  the 
attempt  to  see  her. 

For  the  third  time  she  looked  at  the  letter. 

It  suggested,  on  this  occasion,  a  new  consideration  to  her. 
Did  the  strong  measures  which  Sir  Patrick  had  taken  in  secret 
indicate  alarm  as  well  as  sympathy  ?  Did  he  believe  she  was 
in  a  position  in  which  the  protection  of  the  law  was  powerless 
to  reach  her  ?  It  seemed  just  possible.  Suppose  she  were  free 
to  consult  a  magistrate,  and  to  own  to  him  (if  words  could  ex- 
press it)  the  vague  presentiment  of  danger  which  was  then 
present  in  her  mind — what  proof  could  she  produce  to  satisfy 
the  mind  of  a  stranger?  The  proofs  were  all  in  her  husband's 
favor.  Witnesses  could  testify  to  the  conciliatory  words  which 
he  had  spoken  to  her  in  their  presence.  The  evidence  of  his 
mother  and  brother  would  show  that  he  had  preferred  to  sac- 
rifice his  own  pecuniary  interests  rather  than  consent  to  part 
with  her.  She  could  furnish  nobody  with  the  smallest  excuse, 
in  her  case,  for  interfering  between  man  and  wife.  Did  Sir 
Patrick  see  this  ?  And  did  Blanche's  description  of  what  he 
and  Arnold  Brinkworth  were  doing  point  to  the  conclusion 
that  they  were  taking  the  law  into  their  own  hands  in  de- 
spair?    The  more  she  thought  of  it,  the  more  likely  it  seemed. 

She  was  still  pursuing  the  train  of  thought  thus  suggested, 
when  the  gate-bell  rang. 

The  noises  in  the  spare  room  suddenly  stopped. 

Anne  looked  out.  The  roof  of  a  carriage  was  visible  on  the 
other  side  of  the  wall.  Sir  Patrick  and  Blanche  had  arrived. 
After  an  interval  Hester  Dethridge  appeared  in  the  garden, 
and  went  to  the  grating  in  the  gate.  Anne  heard  Sir  Pat- 
rick's voice,  clear  and  resolute.  Every  word  he  said  reached 
her  ears  through  the  open  window. 

"  Be  so  good  as  to  give  my  card  to  Mr.  Delaraayn.  Say 
that  I  bring  him  a  message  from  Holchester  House,  and  that  I 
can  only  deliver  it  at  a  personal  interview." 

Hester  Dethridge  returned  to  the  cottage.  Another  and 
a  longer  interval  elapsed.  At  the  end  of  the  time,  Geoffrey 
himself  appeared  in  the  front  garden,  with  the  key  in  his 
hand.  Anne's  heart  throbbed  fast  as  she  saw  him  unlock  the 
gate,  and  asked  herself  what  was  to  follow. 

To  her  unutterable  astonishment,  Geoffrey  admitted  Sir  Pat- 
rick without  the  slightest  hesitation  —  and,  more  still,  he  in- 
vited Blanche  to  leave  the  carriage  and  come  in .' 

23* 


538  MAN   ANT)   WIFE. 

"  Let  by-gones  be  by-gones,"  Anne  heard  him  say  to  Sir 
Patrick.  "  I  only  want  to  do  the  right  thing.  If  it's  the  right 
thing  for  visitors  to  come  here  so  soon  after  ray  father's  death, 
come,  and  welcome.  My  own  notion  was,  when  you  proposed 
it  before,  that  it  was  wrong.  I  am  not  much  versed  in  these 
things.     I  leave  it  to  you." 

"A  visitor  who  brings  you  messages  from  your  mother  and 
your  brother,"  Sir  Patrick  answered,  gravely,  "  is  a  person 
whom  it  is  your  duty  to  admit,  Mr.  Delamayn,  under  any  cir- 
cumstances." 

"And  he  ought  to  be  none  the  less  welcome,"  added  Blanche, 
"  when  he  is  accompanied  by  your  wife's  oldest  and  dearest 
friend." 

Geoffrey  looked  in  stolid  submission  from  one  to  the  other. 

"  I  am  not  much  versed  in  these  things,"  he  repeated.  "  I 
have  said  already,  I  leave  it  to  you." 

They  were  by  this  time  close  under  Anne's  window.  She 
showed  herself  Sir  Patrick  took  ofi'  his  hat.  Blanche  kissed 
her  hand  with  a  cry  of  joy,  and  attempted  to  enter  the  cot- 
tage. Geoffrey  stopped  her — and  called  to  his  wife  to  come 
down, 

"  No !  no  !"  said  Blanche.  "  Let  me  go  up  to  her  in  her 
room." 

She  attempted  for  the  second  time  to  gain  the  stairs.  For 
the  second  time,  Geoffrey  stopped  her.  "  Don't  trouble  your- 
self," he  said  ;  "  she  is  coming  down." 

Anne  joined  them  in  the  front  garden.  Blanche  flew  into 
her  arms  and  devoured  her  with  kisses.  Sir  Patrick  took  her 
hand  in  silence.  For  the  first  time  in  Anne's  experience  of  him, 
the  bright,  resolute,  self-reliant  old  man  was,  for  the  moment, 
at  a  loss  what  to  say,  at  a  loss  what  to  do.  His  eyes,  resting 
on  her  in  mute  sympathy  and  interest,  said  plainly,  "  In  your 
husband's  presence  I  must  not  trust  myself  to  speak." 

Geoffrey  broke  the  silence. 

"Will  you  go  into  the  drawing-room?"  he  asked,  looking 
with  steady  attention  at  his  wife  and  Blanche. 

Geoffrey's  voice  appeared  to  rouse  Sir  Patrick.  He  raised 
his  head — he  looked  like  himself  again. 

"  Why  go  indoors  this  lovely  weather  ?"  he  said.  "  Suppose 
we  take  a  turn  in  the  garden  ?" 

Blanche  pressed  Anne's  hand  significantly.  The  proposal 
was  evidently  made  for  a  purpose.  They  turned  the  corner  of 
the  cottage  and  gained  the  large  garden  at  tlie  back — the  two 
ladies  walking  together  arm  in  arm ;  Sir  Patrick  and  Geoffrey 
following  them.  Little  by  little,  Blanche  quickened  her  pace. 
"  I  have  got  my  instructions,"  she  whispered  to  Anne.  "  Let's 
get  out  of  his  hearing." 


MAN    AND    WIFE.  539 

It  was  more  easily  said  than  done.  Geoffrey  kept  close 
behind  them. 

"Consider  my  lameness,  Mr.  Delamayn,"  said  Sir  Patrick. 
"Not  quite  so  last." 

It  was  well  intended.  But  Geoffrey's  cunning  had  taken 
the  alarm.  Instead  of  dropping  behind  with  Sir  Patrick,  he 
called  to  his  wife. 

"  Consider  Sir  Patrick's  lameness,"  he  repeated.  "  Not  quit6 
so  fast." 

Sir  Patrick  met  that  check  with  characteristic  readiness. 
When  Anne  slackened  her  pace,  he  addressed  himself  to  Geof- 
frey, stopping  deliberately  in  the  middle  of  the  path.  "Let 
me  give  you  ray  message  from  Holchester  House,"  he  said. 
The  two  ladies  were  still  slowly  walking  on.  Geoffrey  was 
placed  between  the  alternatives  of  staying  with  Sir  Patrick  and 
leaving  them  by  themselves,  or  of  following  them  and  leaving 
Sir  Patrick.     Deliberately,  on  his  side,  he  followed  the  ladies. 

Sir  Patrick  called  him  back.  "  I  told  you  I  wished  to  speak 
to  you,"  he  said,  sharply. 

Driven  to  bay,  Geoffrey  openly  revealed  his  resolution  to 
give  Blanche  no  opportunity  of  speaking  in  private  to  Anne. 
He  called  to  Anne  to  stop. 

"I  have  no  secrets  from  my  wife,"  he  said.  "And  I  expect 
my  wife  to  have  no  secrets  from  me.  Give  me  the  message  in 
her  hearing." 

Sir  Patrick's  eyes  brightened  with  indignation.  He  con- 
trolled himself,  and  looked  for  an  instant  significantly  at  his 
niece  before  he  spoke  to  Geoffrey. 

"As  you  please,"  he  said.  "Your  brother  requests  me  to  tell 
you  that  the  duties  of  the  new  position  in  which  he  is  placed 
occupy  the  whole  of  his  time,  and  will  prevent  him  from  re- 
turning to  Fulham,  as  he  had  proposed,  for  some  days  to  come. 
Lady  Holchester,  hearing  that  I  was  likely  to  see  you,  has 
charged  me  with  another  message  from  herself  She  is  not 
well  enough  to  leave  home ;  and  she  wishes  to  see  you  at  Hol- 
chester House  to-morrow — accompanied  (as  she  specially  de- 
sires) by  Mrs.  Delamayn." 

In  giving  the  two  messages,  he  gradually  raised  his  voice  to 
a  louder  tone  than  usual.  While  he  was  speaking,  Blanche 
(warned  to  follow  her  instructions  by  the  glance  her  uncle  had 
cast  at  her)  lowered  her  voice,  and  said  to  Anne : 

"  He  won't  consent  to  the  separation  as  long  as  he  has  got 
you  here.  He  is  trying  for  higher  terms.  Leave  him,  and" he 
must  submit.  Put  a  candle  in  your  window,  if  you  can  get 
into  the  garden  to-night.  If  not,  any  other  night.  Make  for 
the  back  gate  in  the  wall.  Sir  Patrick  and  Arnold  will  man- 
age the  rest." 


540  MAN    AND    WIFE. 

She  slipped  those  words  into  Anne's  ears — swinging  her  par- 
asol to  and  fro,  and  looking  as  if  the  merest  gossip  was  drop- 
ping from  her  lips — with  the  dexterity  which  rarely  fails  a 
woman  when  she  is  called  on  to  assist  a  deception  in  which  her 
own  interests  are  concerned.  Cleverly  as  it  had  been  done, 
however,  Geoffrey's  inveterate  distrust  was  stirred  into  action 
by  it.  Blanche  had  got  to  her  last  sentence  before  he  was  able 
to  turn  his  attention  from  what  Sir  Patrick  was  saying  to  what 
his  niece  was  saying.  A  quicker  man  would  have  heard  more. 
Geoffrey  had  only  distinctly  heard  the  first  half  of  the  last  sen- 
tence. 

"  What's  that,"  he  asked,  "  about  Sir  Patrick  and  Arnold  ?" 

"  Nothing  very  interesting  to  you,"  Blanche  answered,  readi- 
ly. "  I  will  repeat  it  if  you  like.  I  was  telling  Anne  about 
my  stepmother.  Lady  Lundie.  After  what  happened  that  day 
in  Portland  Place,  she  has  requested  Sir  Patrick  and  Arnold 
to  consider  themselves,  for  the  future,  as  total  strangers  to  her. 
That's  all." 

"  Oh  J"  said  Geoffrey,  eying  her  narrowly.     "  That's  all  ?" 

"  Ask  my  uncle,"  returned  Blanche,  "  if  you  don't  believe  that 
I  have  reported  her  correctly.  She  gave  us  all  our  dismissal, 
in  her  most  magnificent  manner,  and  in  those  very  words. 
Didn't  she.  Sir  Patrick  ?" 

It  was  perfectly  true.  Blanche's  readiness  of  resource  had 
met  the  emergency  of  the  moment  by  describing  something,  in 
connection  with  Sir  Patrick  and  Arnold,  which  had  really  hap- 
pened. Silenced  on  one  side,  in  spite  of  himself,  Geoftrey  was 
at  the  same  moment  pressed  on  the  other,  for  an  answer  to  his 
mother's  message. 

"  I  must  take  your  reply  to  Lady  Holchester,"  said  Sir  Pat- 
rick.    "  What  is  it  to  be  ?" 

Geoffrey  looked  hard  at  him,  without  making  any  reply. 

Sir  Patrick  repeated  the  message — with  a  special  emphasis 
on  that  part  of  it  which  related  to  Anne.  The  emphasis  roused 
Geoffrey's  temper. 

"  You  and  my  mother  have  made  that  message  up  between 
you,  to  try  me  !"  he  burst  out.  "  D — n  all  undei-hand  work,  is 
what  /  say !" 

"  I  am  waiting  for  your  answer,"  persisted  Sir  Patrick,  stead- 
ily ignoring  the  words  which  had  just  been  addressed  to  him. 

Geoffrey  glanced  at  Anne,  and  suddenly  recovered  himself. 

"My  love  to  my  mothei,"he  said.  "I'll  go  to  her  to-mor- 
row—and take  my  wufe  with  me,  with  the  greatest  pleasure. 
Do  vou  hear  that  ?  With  the  greatest  pleasure."  He  stopped 
to  observe  the  effect  of  his  reply.  Sir  Patrick  waited  impene- 
trably to  hear  more — if  he  had  more  to  say.  "  I'm  sorry  I  lost 
my  temper  just  now,"  he  resumed.     "  I  am  badly  treated — I'm 


MAN^    AND    WIFE.  541 

distrusted  without  a  cause.  I  ask  you  to  bear  witness,"  lie  add- 
ed, his  voice  getting  louder  again,  while  his  eyes  moved  uneasi- 
ly backward  and  forward  between  Sir  Patrick  and  Anne,  "  tliat 
I  treat  ray  wife  as  becomes  a  lady.  Her  friend  calls  on  her — 
and  she's  free  to  receive  her  friend.  My  mother  wants  to  see 
her — and  I  promise  to  take  her  to  my  mother's.  At  two  o'clock 
to-morrow.  Where  am  I  to  blame  ?  You  stand  there  looking 
at  me  and  saying  nothing.     Where  am  I  to  blame  ?" 

"  If  a  man's  own  conscience  justifies  him,  Mr.  Delamayn," 
said  Sir  Patrick,  "the  opinions  of  others  are  of  very  little  im- 
portance.    My  errand  here  is  performed." 

As  he  turned  to  bid  Anne  farewell,  the  uneasiness  that  he 
felt  at  leaving  her  forced  its  way  to  view.  The  color  faded  out 
of  his  face.  His  hand  trembled  as  it  closed  tenderly  and  firm- 
ly on  hers.  "  I  shall  see  you  to-morrow  at  Holchester  House," 
he  said  ;  giving  his  arm  while  he  spoke  to  Blanche.  He  took 
leave  of  Geoffrey  without  looking  at  him  again,  and  without 
seeing  his  offered  hand.     In  another  minute  they  were  gone. 

Anne  waited  on  the  lower  floor  of  the  cottage,  w^hile  Geoffrey 
closed  and  locked  the  gate.  She  had  no  wish  to  appear  to  avoid 
him,  after  the  answer  that  he  had  sent  to  his  mother's  message. 
He  returned  slowly  half-way  across  the  front  garden,  looked  to- 
ward the  passage  in  which  she  was  standing,  passed  before  the 
door,  and  disappeared  round  the  corner  of  the  cottage  on  his 
way  to  the  back  garden.  The  inference  was  not  to  be  mis- 
taken. It  was  Geoffrey  who  M-as  avoiding  her.  Had  he  lied  to 
Sir  Patrick?  When  the  next  day  came,  would  he  find  reasons 
of  his  own  for  refusing  to  take  her  to  Holchester  House  ? 

She  went  up  stairs.  At  the  same  moment  Hester  Dethridge 
opened  her  bedroom  door  to  come  out.  Observing  Anne,  she 
closed  it  again ;  and  remained  invisible  in  her  room.  Once 
more  the  inference  was  not  to  be  mistaken.  Hester  Dethridge, 
also,  had  her  reasons  for  avoiding  Anne. 

What  did  it  mean  ?  What  object  could  there  be  in  common 
between  Hester  and  Geoffrey  ? 

There  was  no  fathoming  the  meaning  of  it.  Anne's  thoughts 
reverted  to  the  communication  which  had  been  secretly  made 
to  her  by  Blanche.  It  was  not  in  womanhood  to  be  insensible 
to  such  devotion  as  Sir  Patrick's  conduct  implied.  Terrible 
as  her  position  had  become  in  its  ever-growing  uncertainty,  in 
its  never-ending  suspense,  the  oppression  of  it  yielded  for  the 
moment  to  the  glow  of  pride  and  gratitude  which  warmed  her 
heart,  as  she  thought  of  the  sacrifices  that  had  been  made,  of 
the  perils  that  were  still  to  be  encountered,  solely  for  her  sake. 
To  shorten  the  period  of  suspense  seemed  to  be  a  duty  which 
she  owed  to  Sir  Patrick,  as  well  as  to  herself.  Why,  in  her  sit- 
uation, wait  for  what  the  next  day  might  bring  forth  ?     If  the 


542  MAN    AND    WIFE. 

opportunity  offerecl,  she  determiued  to  put  the  signal  in  the 
window  that  night. 

Toward  evening  she  heard  once  more  the  noises  which  ap- 
peared to  indicate  that  repairs  of  some  sort  were  going  on  in 
the  house.  This  time  the  sounds  were  fainter  ;  and  they  came, 
as  she  fancied,  not  from  the  spare  room,  as  before,  but  from 
Geoffrey's  room,  next  to  it. 

The  dinner  was  later  than  usual  that  day.  Hester  Dethridge 
did  not  appear  with  the  tray  till  dusk.  Anne  spoke  to  her, 
and  received  a  mute  sign  in  answer.  Determined  to  see  the 
woman's  face  plainly,  she  put  a  question  which  required  a 
written  answer  on  the  slate ;  and,  telling  Hester  to  wait,  went 
to  the  mantel-piece  to  light  her  candle.  When  she  turned 
round  with  the  lighted  candle  in  her  hand,  Hester  was  gone. 

Night  came.  She  rang  her  bell  to  have  the  tray  taken 
away.  The  fall  of  a  strange  footstep  startled  her  outside 
her  door.  She  called  out,  "  Who's  there  ?"  The  voice  of 
the  lad  whom  Geoffrey  employed  to  go  on  errands  for  him  an- 
swered her. 

"  What  do  you  want  here  ?"  she  asked,  through  the  door. 

"  Mr.  Delamayn  sent  me  up,  ma'am.  He  wishes  to  speak  to 
you  directly." 

Anne  found  Geoffrey  in  the  dining-room.  His  object  in 
wishing  to  speak  to  her  was,  on  the  surface  of  it,  trivial  enough. 
He  wanted  to  know  how  she  would  prefer  going  to  Holchester 
House  on  the  next  day — by  the  railway,  or  in  a  carriage.  "  If 
you  prefer  driving,"  he  said,  "  the  boy  has  come  here  for  or- 
ders ;  and  he  can  tell  them  to  send  a  carriage  from  the  livery- 
stables  as  he  goes  home." 

"The  railway  will  do  perfectly  well  for  me,"  Anne  replied. 

Instead  of  accepting  the  answer,  and  dropping  the  subject, 
he  asked  her  to  reconsider  her  decision.  There  was  an  absent, 
uneasy  expression  in  his  eye  as  he  begged  her  not  to  consult 
economy  at  the  expense  of  her  own  comfort.  He  appeared  to 
have  some  reason  of  his  own  for  preventing  her  from  leaving 
the  room.  "  Sit  down  a  minute,  and  think  before  you  decide," 
he  said.  Having  forced  her  to  take  a  chair,  he  put  his  head 
outside  the  door,  and  directed  the  lad  to  go  up  stairs  and  see 
if  he  had  left  his  pipe  in  his  bedroom.  "  I  want  you  to  go  in 
3omfort,  as  a  lady  should,"  he  repeated,  with  the  uneasy  look 
more  marked  than  ever.  Before  Anne  could  reply,  the  lad's 
voice  reached  them  from  the  bedroom  floor,  raised  in  shrill 
alarm,  and  screaming  "  Fir?  !" 

Geoffrey  ran  up  stairs.  Anne  followed  him.  The  lad  met 
them  at  the  top  of  the  stairs.  He  pointed  to  the  open  door  of 
Anne's  room.  She  was  absolutely  certain  of  having  left  her 
lighted  caudle,  when  she  went  down  to  Geoffrey,  at  a  safe  dis- 


MAN    AND    WIFE.  543 

tance  from  the  bed-curtains.  The  bed-curtains,  nevertheless, 
were  in  a  blaze  of  fii'e. 

There  was  a  supply  of  water  to  the  cottage  on  the  upper 
floor.  The  bedroom  jugs  and  cans,  usually  in  their  places  at 
an  earlier  hour,  were  standing  that  night  at  the  cistern.  An 
empty  pail  was  left  near  them.  Directing  the  lad  to  bring 
him  water  from  these  resources,  Geoflrey  tore  down  the  cur- 
tains in  a  flaming  heap,  partly  on  the  bed  and  partly  on  the 
sofa  near  it.  Using  the  can  and  the  pail  alternately,  as  the 
boy  brought  them,  he  drenched  the  bed  and  the  sofa.  It  was 
all  over  in  little  more  than  a  minute.  The  cottage  was  saved, 
but  the  bed-furniture  was  destroyed ;  and  the  room,  as  a  mat- 
ter of  course,  was  rendered  uninhabitable,  for  that  night  at 
least,  and  probably  for  more  nights  to  come. 

Geofi"rey  set  down  the  empty  pail,  and,  turning  to  Anne, 
pointed  across  the  passage. 

"You  won't  be  much  inconvenienced  by  this,"  he  said. 
"You  have  only  to  shift  your  quarters  to  the  spare  room." 

With  the  assistance  of  the  lad,  he  moved  Anne's  boxes,  and 
the  chest  of  drawers,  which  had  escaped  damage,  into  the  op- 
posite room.  This  done,  he  cautioned  her  to  be  careful  with 
her  candles  for  the  future  —  and  went  down  stairs,  without 
waiting  to  hear  what  she  said  in  reply.  The  lad  followed 
him,  and  was  dismissed  for  the  night. 

Even  in  the  confusion  which  attended  the  extinguishing  of 
the  fire,  the  conduct  of  Hester  Dethridge  had  been  remarkable 
enough  to  force  itself  on  the  attention  of  Anne. 

She  had  come  out  from  her  bedroom  when  the  alarm  was 
given  ;  had  looked  at  the  flaming  curtains ;  and  had  drawn 
back,  stolidly  submissive,  into  a  corner  to  wait  the  event. 
There  she  had  stood — to  all  appearance,  utterly  indiflerent  to 
the  possible  destruction  of  her  own  cottage.  The  tire  extin- 
guished, she  still  waited  impenetrably  in  her  corner,  while  the 
chest  of  drawers  and  the  boxes  were  being  moved — then  lock- 
ed the  door,  without  even  a  passing  glance  at  the  scorched 
ceiling  and  the  burned  bed-furniture  —  put  the  key  into  her 
pocket — and  went  back  to  her  room. 

Anne  had  hitherto  not  shared  the  conviction  felt  by  most 
other  persons  who  were  brought  into  contact  with  Hester 
Dethridge,  that  the  woman's  mind  was  deranged.  After  what 
she  had  just  seen,  however,  the  general  impression  became  her 
impression  too.  She  had  thought  of  putting  certain  questions 
to  Hester,  when  they  were  left  together,  as  to  the  origin  of  the 
fire.  Reflection  decided  her  on  saying  nothing,  for  that  night 
at  least.  She  crossed  the  passage,  and  entered  the  spare  room 
— the  room  which  she  had  declined  to  occupy  on  her  arrival 
at  the  cottage,  and  which  she  was  obliged  to  sleep  in  now. 


544  MAN    A^D    WIPE. 

She  was  instantly  struck  by  a  change  in  the  disposition  of 
the  furniture  of  the  room. 

The  bed  had  been  moved.  The  head  —  set,  when  she  had 
last  seen  it,  against  the  side  wall  of  the  cottage — was  placed 
now  against  the  partition  wall  which  separated  the  room  from 
Geoft'rey's  room.  This  new  arrangement  had  evidently  been 
effected  with  a  settled  purpose  of  some  sort.  The  hook  in  the 
ceiling  which  supported  the  curtains  (the  bed,  unlike  the  bed 
in  the  other  room,  having  no  canopy  attached  to  it)  had  been 
moved  so  as  to  adapt  itself  to  the  change  that  had  been  made. 
The  chairs  and  the  washhaiid-stand,  formerly  placed  against  the 
partition  wall,  were  now,  as  a  matter  of  necessity,  shifted  over  to 
the  vacant  space  against  the  side  wall  of  the  cottage.  For  the 
rest,  no  other  alteration  was  visible  in  any  part  of  the  room. 

In  Anne's  situation,  any  event  not  immediately  intelligible 
on  the  face  of  it  was  an  event  to  be  distrusted.  Was  there  a 
motive  for  the  change  in  the  position  of  the  bed?  And  was 
it,  by  any  chance,  a  motive  in  which  she  was  concerned? 

The  doubt  had  barely  occurred  to  her,  before  a  startling  sus- 
picion succeeded  it.  Was  there  some  secret  purpose  to  be  an- 
swered by  making  her  sleep  in  the  spare  room  ?  Did  the  ques- 
tion which  the  servant  had  heard  Geoffrey  put  to  Hester  on 
the  previous  night  refer  to  this?  Had  the  fire  which  had  so 
unaccountably  caught  the  curtains  in  her  own  room  been,  by 
any  possibility,  a  fire  purposely  kindled,  to  force  her  out  ? 

She  dropped  into  the  nearest  chair,  faint  with  horror,  as 
those  three  questions  forced  themselves  in  rapid  succession  on 
her  mind. 

After  waiting  a  little,  she  recovered  self-possession  enough 
to  recognize  the  first  plain  necessity  of  putting  her  suspicions 
to  the  test.  It  was  possible  that  her  excited  fancy  had  filled 
her  with  a  purely  visionary  alarm.  For  all  she  knew  to  the 
contrary,  there  might  be  some  undeniably  sufficient  reason  for 
changing  the  position  of  the  bed.  She  went  out,  and  knocked 
at  the  door  of  Hester  Dethridge's  room, 

"  I  want  to  speak  to  you,"  she  said. 

Hester  came  out.  Anne  pointed  to  the  spare  room,  and  led 
the  way  to  it.     Hester  followed  her. 

"  Why  have  you  changed  the  place  of  the  bed,"  she  asked, 
"from  the  wall  there  to  the  wall  here?" 

Stolidly  submissive  to  the  question,  as  she  had  been  stolidly 
submissive  to  the  fire,  Hester  Dethridge  wrote  her  reply.  On 
all  other  occasions  she  was  accustomed  to  look  the  persons  to 
whom  she  offei'ed  her  slate  steadily  in  the  face.  Now,  for  the 
first  time,  she  handed  it  to  Anne  with  her  eyes  on  the  floor. 
The  one  line  written  contained  no  direct  answer:  the  words 
were  these : 


MAN    AND   WIFE.  545 

"  I  have  meant  to  move  it  for  some  time  past." 

"I  ask  you  why  you  liuve  moved  it." 

She  wrote  these  four  words  ou  the  slate:  "The  wall  is 
damp." 

Anne  looked  at  the  wall.  There  was  no  sign  of  damp  on 
the  paper.  She  passed  her  hand  over  it.  Feel  where  she 
might,  the  wall  was  dry. 

"  That  is  not  your  reason,"  she  said. 

Hester  stood  immovable. 

"  There  is  no  dampness  in  the  wall." 

Hester  pointed  persistently  with  her  pencil  to  the  four  words, 
still  without  looking  up — waited  a  moment  for  Anne  to  read 
them  again — and  left  the  room. 

It  was  plainly  useless  to  call  her  back.  Anne's  first  impulse 
when  she  was  alone  again  was  to  secure  the  door.  She  not 
only  locked  it,  but  bolted  it  at  top  and  bottom.  The  mortise 
of  the  lock  and  the  staples  of  the  bolts,  when  she  tried  them, 
were  firm.  The  lurking  treachery — wherever  else  it  might  be 
— was  not  in  the  fiistenings  of  the  door. 

She  looked  all  round  the  room;  examining  the  fire-place,  the 
window  and  its  shutters,  the  interioi-  of  the  wardrobe,  the  hid- 
den space  under  the  bed.  Nothing  was  anywhere  to  be  dis- 
covered which  could  justify  the  most  timid  person  living  in 
feeling  suspicion  or  alarm. 

Appearances,  fair  as  they  were,  failed  to  convince  her.  The 
presentiment  of  some  hidden  treachery,  steadily  getting  nearer 
and  nearer  to  her  in  the  dark,  had  rooted  itself  firmly  in  her 
mind.  She  sat  down,  and  tried  to  trace  her  way  back  to  the 
clue  through  the  earlier  events  of  the  day. 

The  efibrt  was  fruitless :  nothing  definite,  nothing  tangible, 
rewarded  it.  Worse  still,  a  new  doubt  grew  out  of  it— a  doubt 
whether  the  motive  which  Sir  Patrick  had  avowed  (through 
Blanche)  was  the  motive  for  helping  her  which  was  really  in 
his  mind. 

Did  he  sincerely  believe  Geoffrey's  conduct  to  be  animated 
by  no  worse  object  than  a  mercenary  object?  and  was  his  only 
purpose,  in  planning  to  remove  her  out  of  her  husband's  reach, 
to  force  Geofii"rey's  consent  to  their  separation  on  the  terms 
which  Julius  had  proposed  ?  Was  this  really  the  sole  end  that 
he  had  in  view?  or  was  he  secretly  convinced  (knowing  Anne's 
position  as  he  knew  it)  that  she  was  in  personal  danger  at  the 
cottage?  and  had  he  considerately  kept  that  conviction  con- 
cealed, in  the  fear  that  he  might  otherwise  encourage  her  to 
feel  alarmed  about  herself?  She  looked  round  the  strange 
room  in  the  silence  of  the  night,  and  she  felt  that  the  latter 
interpretation  was  the  likeliest  interpretation  of  the  two. 

The  sounds  caused  by  the  closing  of  the  doors  and  win- 
35 


546  MAX  AND  avif:-. 

dows  reached  her  from  the  ground-floor.  What  was  to  he 
done? 

It  was  impossible  to  show  the  signal  which  had  been  agreed 
on  to  Sir  Patrick  and  Arnold.  The  window  in  which  they  ex- 
pected to  see  it  was  the  window  of  the  room  in  which  the  fire 
had  broken  out — the  room  which  Hester  Dethridge  had  locked 
up  for  the  night. 

It  was  equally  hopeless  to  wait  until  the  policeman  passed 
on  his  beat,  and  to  call  for  help.  Even  if  she  could  prevail 
upon  herself  to  make  that  open  acknowledgment  of  distrust 
under  her  husband's  roof,  and  even  if  help  was  near,  what  valid 
reason  could  she  give  for  raising  an  alarm?  There  was  not 
the  shadow  of  a  reason  to  justify  any  one  in  placing  her  under 
the  protection  of  the  law. 

As  a  last  resource,  impelled  by  her  blind  distrust  of  the 
change  in  the  position  of  the  bed,  she  attempted  to  move  it. 
The  utmost  exertion  of  her  strength  did  not  suffice  to  stir  the 
heavy  piece  of  furniture  out  of  its  place  by  so  much  as  a  hair- 
breadth. 

There  was  no  alternative  but  to  trust  to  the  security  of  the 
locked  and  bolted  door,  and  to  keep  watch  through  the  night 
— certain  that  Sir  Patrick  and  Arnold  were,  on  their  part,  also 
keeping  watch  in  the  near  neighborhood  of  the  cottage.  She 
took  out  her  work  and  her  books ;  and  returned  to  her  chair, 
placing  it  near  the  table,  in  the  middle  of  the  room. 

The  last  noises  which  told  of  life  and  movement  about  her 
died  away.  The  breathless  stillness  of  the  night  closed  round 
her. 


CHAPTER  THE  FIFTY-SIXTH. 

THE    MEANS. 

The  new  day  dawned ;  the  sun  rose ;  the  household  was 
astir  again.  Inside  the  spare  room,  and  outside  the  spare 
room,  nothing  had  happened. 

At  the  hour  appointed  for  leaving  the  cottage  to  pay  the 
promised  visit  to  Holchester  House,  Hester  Dethridge  and 
Geoffrey  were  alone  together  in  the  bedroom  in  which  Anne 
had  passed  the  night. 

"She's  dressed,  and  waiting  for  me  in  the  front  garden,"  said 
Geoffrey.     "  You  wanted  to  see  me  here  alone.     What  is  it  ?" 

Hester  pointed  to  the  bed. 

"  You  want  it  moved  from  the  wall  ?" 

Hester  nodded  her  head. 

They  moved  the  bed  some  feet  away  from  the  partition 
wall.     After  a  momentary  pause,  Geoffrey  spoke  again. 


MAN    AND    WIFE.  647 

"  It  must  be  done  to-night,"  he  said.  "  Her  friends  may  in- 
terfere ;  the  girl  may  come  back.     It  must  be  done  to-night." 

Hester  bowed  her  head  slowly. 

"How  long  do  you  want  to  be  left  by  yourself  in  the 
aouse  ?" 

She  held  up  three  of  her  fingers. 
;    "  Does  that  mean  three  hours  ?" 

She  nodded  her  head. 
1    "  Will  it  be  done  in  that  time  ?" 
'    She  made  the  affirmative  sign  once  more. 

Thus  far  she  had  never  lifted  her  eyes  to  his.  In  her  man- 
ler  of  listening  to  him  when  he  spoke,  in  the  slightest  move- 
■nent  that  she  made  when  necessity  required  it,  the  same  life- 
ess  submission  to  him,  the  same  mute  horror  of  him,  was  ex- 
oressed.  He  had,  thus  far,  silently  resented  this,  on  his  side. 
On  the  point  of  leaving  the  room  the  restraint  which  he  had 
!aid  on  himself  gave  way.  For  the  first  time  he  resented  it  in 
words. 

"  Why  the  devil  can't  you  look  at  me  ?"  he  asked. 

She  let  the  question  pass,  without  a  sign  to  show  that  she 
had  heard  him.  He  angrily  repeated  it.  She  wn-ote  on  her 
slate,  and  held  it  out  to  him — still  without  raising  her  eyes  to 
his  face. 

"  You  know  you  can  speak,"  he  said.  "  You  know  I  have 
found  you  out.  What's  the  use  of  playing  the  fool  with 
me  r 

She  persisted  in  holding  the  slate  before  him.  He  read 
these  words : 

"  I  am  dumb  to  you,  and  blind  to  you.     Let  me  be." 
;     "Let  you  be!"  he  repeated.     "It's  a  little  late  in  the  day 
to  be  scrupulous,  after  what  you  have  done.     Do  you  want 
your  Confession  back,  or  not  ?" 

As  the  reference  to  the  Confession  passed  his  lips,  she  raised 
her  head.  A  faint  tinge  of  color  showed  itself  on  her  livid 
cheeks ;  a  momentary  spasm  of  pain  stirred  her  death-like  face. 
IThe  one  last  interest  left  in  the  woman's  life  was  the  interest 
of  recovering  the  manuscript  which  had  been  taken  from  her. 
ITo  that  appeal  the  stunned  intelligence  still  faintly  answered — ■ 
land  to  no  other. 

"Remember  the  bargain  on  your  side,"  GeoflTrey  went  on, 
"  and  I'll  remember  the  bargain  on  mine.  This  is  how  it 
stands,  you  know.  I  have  read  your  Confession ;  and  I  find 
one  thing  wanting.  You  don't  tell  how  it  was  done.  I  know 
you  smothered  him ;  but  I  don't  know  how.  I  want  to  know. 
You're  dumb  ;  and  you  can't  tell  me.  You  must  do  to  the 
wall  here  what  you  did  in  the  other  house.  You  run  no  risks. 
There  isn't  a  soul  to  see  you.     You  have  got  the  place  to 


548  MAN    AND    WIFE. 

yourself.  When  I  come  back  let  me  find  this  wall  like  the 
other  wall — at  that  small  hour  of  the  morning,  you  know,  when 
you  were  waiting,  with  the  towel  in  your  hand,  for  the  first 
stroke  of  the  clock.  Let  me  find  that,  and  to-morrow  you 
shall  have  your  Confession  back  again." 

As  the  reference  to  the  Confession  passed  his  lips  for  the 
second  time,  the  sinking  energy  in  the  woman  leaped  up  in  her 
once  more.  She  snatched  her  slate  from  her  side,  and,  writing 
on  it  rapidly,  held  it,  with  both  hands,  close  under  his  eyes. 
He  read  these  words : 

"  I  won't  wait.     I  must  have  it  to-night." 

"Do  you  think  I  keep  your  Confession  about  me?"  said 
Geoffrey.     "  I  haven't  even  got  it  in  the  house." 

She  staggered  back,  and  looked  up  for  the  first  time. 

"  Don't  alarm  yourself,"  he  went  on.  "  It's  sealed  up  with 
my  seal ;  and  it's  safe  in  my  bankers'  keeping.  I  posted  it  to 
them  myself  You  don't  stick  at  a  trifle,  Mrs.  Dethridge.  If 
I  had  kept  it  locked  up  in  the  house,  you  might  have  forced 
the  lock  when  my  back  was  turned.  If  I  had  kept  it  about 
me — I  might  have  had  that  towel  over  my  face,  in  the  small 
hours  of  the  morning  !  The  bankers  will  give  you  back  your 
Confession — just  as  they  have  received  it  from  me — on  receipt 
of  an  order  in  my  handwriting.  Do  what  I  have  told  you, 
and  you  shall  have  the  order  to-night." 

She  passed  her  apron  over  her  face,  and  drew  a  long  breath 
of  relief.     Geoffrey  turned  to  the  door, 

"  I  will  be  back  at  six  this  evening,"  he  said.  "  Shall  I  find 
it  done  ?" 

She  bowed  her  head. 

His  first  condition  accepted,  he  proceeded  to  the  second. 

"  When  the  opportunity  offers,"  he  resumed,  "  I  shall  go  up 
to  my  room.  I  shall  ring  the  dining-room  bell  first.  You  will 
go  up  before  me  when  you  hear  that — and  you  will  show  me 
how  you  did  it  in  the  empty  house  ?" 

She  made  the  affirmative  sign  once  more. 

At  the  same  moment  the  door  in  the  passage  below  was 
opened  and  closed  again.  Geoffrey  instantly  went  down 
stairs.  It  was  possible  that  Anne  might  have  forgotten 
something ;  and  it  was  necessary  to  prevent  her  from  return- 
ing to  her  own  room. 

They  met  in  the  passage. 

"  Tired  of  waiting  in  the  garden  ?"  he  asked,  abruptly. 

She  pointed  to  the  dining-room. 

"The  postman  has  just  given  me  a  letter  for  you,  through 
the  grating  in  the  gate,"  she  answered.  "  I  have  put  it  on  the 
table  in  there." 

He  went  in.     The  handwriting  on  the  address  of  the  lettet 


MAN  AND  Wipe.  54^ 

was  the  handwriting  of  Mrs.  Glenarm.     He  pnt  it  unread  into 

his  pocket,  and  went  back  to  Anne. 

"Step  out!"  he  said.     "We  shall  lose  the  train." 
They  started  for  their  visit  to  Holchester  House. 


CHAI'TER  THE  FIFTY-SEVENTH. 

THE   END. 

At  a  few  minutes  before  six  o'clock  that  evening,  Lord  Hol- 
chester's  carriage  brought  Geoffrey  and  Anne  back  to  the  cot- 
tage. 

GeoiFrey  prevented  the  servant  from  ringing  at  the  gate. 
He  had  taken  the  key  with  him,  when  he  left  home  earlier  in 
the  day.  Having  admitted  Anne,  and  having  closed  the  gate 
again,  he  went  on  before  her  to  the  kitchen  window,  and  called 
to  Hester  Dethridge. 

"  Take  some  cold  water  into  the  drawing-room,  and  fill  the 
vase  on  the  chimney-piece,"  he  said.  "The  sooner  you  put 
those  flowers  into  water,"  he  added,  turning  to  his  wife,  "  the 
longer  they  will  last." 

He  pointed,  as  he  spoke,  to  a  nosegay  in  Anne's  hand,  which 
Julius  had  gathered  for  her  from  the  conservatory  at  Holches- 
ter House.  Leaving  her  to  arrange  the  flowers  iu  the  vase,  he 
went  up  stairs.  After  waiting  for  a  moment,  he  was  joined  by 
Hester  Dethridge. 

"  Done  ?"  he  asked,  in  a  whisper. 

Hester  made  the  aflirmative  sign.  Geoff'rey  took  off"  his 
boots,  and  led  the  way  into  the  spare  room.  They  noiselessly 
moved  the  bed  back  to  its  place  against  the  partition  wall, 
and  left  the  room  again.  When  Anne  entered  it,  some  min- 
utes afterward,  not  the  slightest  change  of  any  kind  was  visi- 
ble since  she  had  last  seen  it  in  the  middle  of  the  day. 

She  removed  her  bonnet  and  mantle,  and  sat  down  to  rest. 

The  whole  course  of  events,  since  the  previous  night,  had 
tended  one  way,  and  had  exerted  the  same  delusive  influence 
over  her  mind.  It  was  impossible  for  her  any  longer  to  resist 
the  conviction  that  she  had  distrusted  appearances  without  the 
slightest  reason,  and  that  she  had  permitted  purely  visionary 
suspicions  to  fill  her  with  purely  causeless  alarm.  In  the  firm 
belief  that  she  was  in  danger,  she  had  watched  through  the 
night — and  nothing  had  happened.  In  the  confident  anticipa- 
tion that  Geoftrey  had  promised  what  he  was  resolved  not  to 
perform,  she  had  waited  to  see  what  excuse  he  would  find  for 
keeping  her  at  the  cottage.     And,  when  the  time  came  for  the 


650  MAN    AND    WIFE. 

visit,  she  found  him  ready  to  fulfill  the  engagement  which  he 
had  made.  At  Holchester  House,  not  the  slightest  interfer- 
ence had  been  attempted  with  her  perfect  liberty  of  action  and 
speech.  Resolved  to  inform  Sir  Patrick  that  she  had  changed 
her  room,  she  had  described  the  alarm  of  fire  and  the  events 
which  had  succeeded  it,  in  the  fullest  detail — and  had  not  been 
once  checked  by  Geoflrey  from  beginning  to  end.  She  had 
spoken  in  confidence  to  Blanche,  and  had  never  been  interrupt- 
ed. Walking  round  the  conservatory,  she  had  dropped  behind 
the  others  with  perfect  impunity,  to  say  a  grateful  word  to  Sir 
Patrick,  and  to  ask  if  the  interpretation  that  he  placed  on  Geof- 
frey's conduct  was  really  the  interj^retation  which  had  been 
hinted  at  by  Blanche.  They  had  talked  together  for  ten  min- 
utes or  more.  Sir  Patrick  had  assured  her  that  Blanche  had 
correctly  represented  his  opinion.  He  had  declared  his  con- 
viction that  the  rash  way  was,  in  her  case,  the  right  way ;  and 
that  she  would  do  well  (with  his  assistance)  to  take  the  in- 
itiative, in  the  matter  of  the  separation,  on  herself  "As  long 
as  he  can  keep  you  under  the  same  roof  with  him  " — Sir  Pat- 
rick had  said — "  so  long  he  will  speculate  on  our  anxiety  to  re- 
lease you  from  the  oppression  of  living  with  him  ;  and  so  long 
he  will  hold  out  with  his  brother  (in  the  character  of  a  peni- 
tent husband)  for  higher  terms.  Put  the  signal  in  the  win 
dow,  and  try  the  experiment  to-night.  Once  find  your  way  to 
the  garden  door,  and  I  answer  for  keeping  you  safely  out  of 
his  reach  until  he  has  submitted  to  the  separation,  and  has 
signed  the  deed."  In  those  words,  he  had  urged  Anne  to 
prompt  action.  He  had  received,  in  return,  her  promise  to  bo 
guided  by  his  advice.  She  had  gone  back  to  the  drawing- 
room ;  and  Geoffrey  had  made  no  remark  on  her  absence.  She 
had  returned  to  Fulham,  alone  with  him  in  his  brother's  car- 
riage ;  and  he  had  asked  no  questions.  What  was  it  natural, 
with  her  means  of  judging,  to  infer  from  all  this?  Could  she 
see  into  Sir  Patrick's  mind,  and  detect  that  he  was  deliberate- 
ly concealing  his  own  conviction,  in  the  fear  that  he  might 
paralyze  her  energies  if  he  acknowledged  the  alarm  for  her 
that  he  really  felt?  No.  She  could  only  accept  the  false  ap- 
pearances that  surrounded  her  in  the  disguise  of  truth.  She 
could  only  adopt,  in  good  faith.  Sir  Patrick's  assumed  point  of 
view,  and  believe,  on  the  evidence  of  her  own  observation,  that 
Sir  Patrick  was  right. 

Toward  dusk,  Anne  began  to  feel  the  exhaustion  which  was 
the  necessary  result  of  a  night  passed  without  sleep.  She  rang 
her  bell,  and  asked  for  some  tea. 

Hester  Dethridge  answered  the  bell.  Instead  of  making  the 
usual  sign,  she  stood  considering — and  then  wrote  on  her  slate. 


MAN    AND   WIFE.  551 

These  were  the  words :  "  I  have  all  the  work  to  do,  now  the 
girl  has  gone.  If  you  would  have  your  tea  in  the  drawing- 
room,  you  would  save  me  another  journey  up  stairs." 

Anne  at  once  engaged  to  comply  with  the  request. 

"Are  you  ill  ?"  she  asked  ;  noticing,  faint  as  the  light  now 
was,  something  strangely  altered  in  Hester's  manner. 

Without  looking  up,  Hester  shook  her  head. 

"  Has  any  thing  happened  to  vex  you  ?" 

The  negative  sign  was  repeated. 

"  Have  I  offended  you  ?" 

She  suddenly  advanced  a  step ;  suddenly  looked  at  Anne ; 
checked  herself  with  a  dull  moan,  like  a  moan  of  pain ;  and 
hurried  out  of  the  room. 

Concluding  that  she  had  inadvertently  said  or  done  some- 
thing to  offend  Hester  Dethridge,  Anne  determined  to  return 
to  the  subject  at  the  first  favorable  opportunity.  In  the  mean 
time  she  descended  to  the  ground  -  floor.  The  dining  -  room 
door,  standing  wide  open,  showed  her  Geoffrey  sitting  at  the 
table,  writing  a  letter,  with  the  fatal  brandy-bottle  at  his  side. 

After  what  Mr.  Speedwell  had  told  her,  it  was  her  duty  to 
interfere.  She  performed  her  duty  without  an  instant's  hesi- 
tation. 

"  Pardon  me  for  interrupting  you,"  she  said.  "  I  think  you 
have  forgotten  what  Mr.  Speedwell  told  you  about  that." 

She  pointed  to  the  bottle.  Geoffrey  looked  at  it ;  looked 
down  again  at  his  letter,  and  impatiently  shook  his  head.  She 
made  a  second  attempt  at  remonstrance — again  without  effect. 
He  only  said, "All  right!"  in  lower  tones  than  were  custom- 
ary with  him,  and  continued  his  occupation.  It  was  useless  to 
court  a  third  repulse.     Anne  went  into  the  drawing-room. 

The  letter  on  which  he  was  engaged  was  an  answer  to  Mrs. 
Glenarm,  who  had  written  to  tell  him  that  she  was  leaving 
town.  He  had  reached  his  two  concluding  sentences  when 
Anne  spoke  to  him.  They  ran  as  follows :  "  I  may  have  news 
to  bring  you,  before  long,  which  you  don't  look  for.  Stay 
where  you  are  through  to-morrow,  and  wait  to  hear  from  me." 

After  sealing  the  envelope,  he  emptied  his  glass  of  brandy- 
and-water,  and  waited,  looking  through  the  open  door.  When 
Hester  Dethridge  crossed  the  passage  with  the  tea-tray,  and 
entered  the  drawing-room,  he  gave  the  sign  which  had  been 
agreed  on.  He  rang  his  bell,  Hester  came  out  again,  closing 
the  drawing-room  door  behind  her, 

"  Is  she  safe  at  her  tea?"  he  asked,  removing  his  heavy  boots, 
and  putting  on  the  slippers  which  were  placed  ready  for  him. 

Hester  bowed  her  head. 

He  pointed  up  the  stairs.  "You  go  first,"  he  whispered. 
'  No  nonsense !  and  no  noise !" 


652  MAN   AND   WIFE. 

She  ascended  the  stairs.  He  followed  slowly.  Although  he 
had  only  drank  one  glass  of  brandy-and-water,  his  step  was 
uncertain  already.  With  one  hand  on  the  wall,  and  one  hand 
on  the  banister,  he  made  his  way  to  the  top ;  stopped,  and 
listened  for  a  moment ;  then  joined  Hester  in  his  own  room, 
and  softly  locked  the  door. 

"  Well  ?"  he  said. 

She  was  standing  motionless  in  the  middle  of  the  room — not 
like  a  living  woman — like  a  machine  waiting  to  be  set  in  move- 
ment. Finding  it  useless  to  speak  to  her,  he  touched  her  (with 
a  strange  sensation  of  shrinking  in  him  as  he  did  it),  and 
pointed  to  the  partition  wall. 

The  touch  roused  hei'.  With  slow  step  and  vacant  face — 
moving  as  if  she  was  walking  in  her  sleep — she  led  the  way  to 
the  papered  wall ;  knelt  down  at  the  skirting-board ;  and,  tak- 
ing out  two  small  sharp  nails,  lifted  up  a  long  strip  of  the 
paper  which  had  been  detached  from  the  plaster  beneath. 
Mounting  on  a  chair,  she  turned  back  the  strip  and  pinned  it 
up,  out  of  the  way,  using  the  two  nails,  which  she  had  kept 
ready  in  her  hand. 

By  the  last  dim  rays  of  twilight,  Geoffrey  looked  at  the  wall. 

A  hollow  space  met  his  view.  At  a  distance  of  some  three 
feet  from  the  floor  the  laths  had  been  sawn  away,  and  the 
plaster  had  been  ripped  out,  piecemeal,  so  as  to  leave  a  cavity, 
sufficient  in  height  and  width  to  allow  free  power  of  working 
in  any  direction,  to  a  man's  arms.  The  cavity  completely 
pierced  the  substance  of  the  wall.  Nothing  but  the  paper  on 
the  other  side  prevented  eye  or  hand  from  penetrating  into  the 
next  room. 

Hester  Dethridge  got  down  from  the  chair,  and  made  signs 
for  a  light, 

Geoffrey  took  a  match  from  the  box.  The  same  strange  un- 
certainty which  had  already  possessed  his  feet,  appeared  now 
to  possess  his  hands.  He  struck  the  match  too  heavily  against 
the  sand-paper,  and  broke  it.  He  tried  another,  and  struck  it 
too  lightly  to  kindle  the  flame.  Hester  took  the  box  out  of 
his  hands.  Having  lit  the  candle,  she  held  it  low,  and  pointed 
to  the  skirting-board. 

Two  little  hooks  were  fixed  into  the  floor,  near  the  part  of 
the  wall  from  which  the  paper  had  been  removed.  Two  lengths 
of  fine  and  strong  string  were  twisted  once  or  twice  round  the 
hooks.  The  loose  ends  of  the  string,  extending  to  some  length 
beyond  the  twisted  parts,  were  neatly  coiled  away  against  the 
skirting-board.  The  other  ends,  drawn  tight,  disappeared  in 
two  small  holes  drilled  through  the  wall,  at  a  height  of  a  foot 
from  the  floor. 

After  first  untwisting  the  strings  from  the  hooks,  Hester  rose, 


MAN    AND    WIFE.  553 

and  held  the  candle  so  as  to  light  the  cavity  in  the  wall.  Two 
more  pieces  of  the  fine  string  were  seen  here,  resting  loose  upon 
the  uneven  surface  which  marked  the  lower  boundary  of  the 
hollowed  space.  Lifting  these  higher  strings,  Hester  lifted  the 
loosened  paper  in  the  next  room — the  lower  strings,  which  had 
previously  held  the  strip  firm  and  flat  against  the  sound  por- 
tion of  the  wall,  working  in  their  holes,  and  allowing  the  paper 
to  move  up  freely.  As  it  rose  higher  and  higher,  Geofli'ey  saw 
thin  strips  of  cotton  wool  lightly  attached,  at  intervals,  to  the 
back  of  the  paper,  so  as  effectually  to  prevent  it  from  making 
a  grating  sound  against  the  wall.  Up  and  up  it  came  slowly, 
till  it  could  be  pulled  through  the  hollow  space,  and  pinned  up 
out  of  the  way,  as  the  strip  previously  lifted  had  been  pinned 
before  it.  Hester  drew  back,  and  made  way  for  Geoffrey  to 
look  through.  There  was  Anne's  room,  visible  through  the 
wall!  He  softly  parted  the  light  curtains  that  hung  over  the 
bed.  There  was  the  pillow,  on  which  her  head  would  rest  at 
night,  within  reach  of  his  hands ! 

The  deadly  dexterity  of  it  struck  him  cold.  His  nerves  gave 
way.  He  drew  back  with  a  start  of  guilty  fear,  and  looked 
round  the  room.  A  pocket-flask  of  brandy  lay  on  the  table  at 
his  bedside.  He  snatched  it  up,  and  emptied  it  at  a  draught — 
and  felt  like  himself  again. 

He  beckoned  to  Hester  to  approach  him. 

"  Before  we  go  any  further,"  he  said,  "  there's  one  thing  I 
want  to  know.  How  is  it  all  to  be  put  right  again  ?  Suppose 
this  room  is  examined  ?    Those  strings  will  show." 

Hester  opened  a  cupboard  and  produced  a  jar.  She  took 
out  the  cork.  There  was  a  mixture  inside  which  looked  like 
glue.  Partly  by  signs,  and  partly  by  help  of  the  slate,  she 
showed  how  the  mixture  could  be  applied  to  the  back  of  the 
loosened  strip  of  paper  in  the  next  room — how  the  paper  could 
be  glued  to  the  sound  lower  part  of  the  wall  by  tightening  the 
strings — how  the  strings,  having  served  that  purpose,  could  be 
safely  removed — how  the  same  process  could  be  followed  in 
Geoffrey's  room,  after  the  hollowed  place  had  been  filled  up 
again  with  the  materials  waiting  in  the  scullery,  or  even  with- 
out filling  up  the  hollow  place  if  the  time  failed  for  doing  it. 
In  either  case,  the  refastened  paper  would  hide  every  thing, 
and  the  wall  would  tell  no  tales. 

Geoffrey  was  satisfied.  He  pointed  next  to  the  towels  in  his 
room. 

''  Take  one  of  them,"  he  said,  "  and  show  me  how  you  did  it, 
with  your  own  hands." 

As  he  said  the  words,  Anne's  voice  reached  his  ear  from  be- 
low, calling  for  "  Mrs.  Dethridge." 

it  was  impossible  to  say  what  might  happen  next.     In  an- 


564  MAN   AND   WIFE. 

other  minute  she  might  go  up  to  her  room  and  discover  every 
thing.     Geoffrey  pointed  to  the  wall. 

"  Put  it  right  again,"  he  said.     "  Instantly  !" 

It  was  soon  done.  All  that  was  necessary  was  to  let  the 
two  strips  of  paper  drop  back  into  their  places — to  fasten  the 
strip  to  the  wall  in  Anne's  room,  by  tightening  the  two  lower 
strings — and  then  to  replace  the  nails  which  held  the  loose 
strip  on  Geoffrey's  side.  In  a  minute  the  wall  had  re-assumed 
its  customary  aspect. 

They  stole  out,  and  looked  over  the  stairs  into  the  passage 
below.  After  calling  uselessly  for  the  second  time,  Anne  ap- 
peared ;  crossed  over  to  the  kitchen ;  and,  returning  again  with 
the  kettle  in  her  hand,  closed  the  drawing-room  door. 

Hester  Dethridge  waited  impenetrably  to  receive  her  next 
directions.  There  were  no  further  directions  to  give.  The 
hideous  dramatic  representation  of  the  woman's  crime  for  which 
Geoffrey  had  asked  was  in  no  respect  necessary :  the  means 
were  all  prepared,  and  the  manner  of  using  them  was  self-evi- 
dent. Nothing  but  the  opportunity,  and  the  resolution  to 
profit  by  it,  were  wanting  to  lead  the  way  to  the  end.  Geof- 
frey signed  to  Hester  to  go  down  stairs. 

"  Get  back  into  the  kitchen,"  he  said,  "  before  she  comes  out 
again.  I  shall  keep  in  the  garden.  When  she  goes  up  into 
her  room  for  the  night,  show  yourself  at  the  back-door — and  1 
shall  know." 

Hester  set  her  foot  on  the  first  stair — stopped — turned  round 
— and  looked  slowly  along  the  two  walls  of  the  passage,  from 
end  to  end — shuddered — shook  her  head — and  went  slowly  on 
down  the  stairs. 

"  What  were  you  looking  for  ?"  he  whispered  after  her. 

She  neither  answered  nor  looked  back — she  went  her  way 
into  the  kitchen. 

He  waited  a  minute,  and  then  followed  her. 

On  his  way  out  to  the  garden,  he  went  into  the  dining-room. 
The  moon  had  risen,  and  the  window-shutters  were  not  closed. 
It  was  easy  to  find  the  brandy  and  the  jug  of  water  on  tlie 
table.  He  mixed  the  two,  and  emptied  the  tumbler  at  a 
draught.  "  My  head's  queer,"  he  whispered  to  himself  He 
passed  his  handkerchief  over  his  face.  "  How  infernally  hot  it 
is  to-night !"  He  made  for  the  door.  It  was  open,  and  plainly 
visible  —  and  yet  he  failed  to  find  his  way  to  it.  Twice  he 
found  himself  trying  to  walk  through  the  wall,  on  either  side. 
The  third  time  he  got  out,  and  reached  the  garden.  A  strange 
sensation  possessed  him,  as  he  walked  round  and  round.  He 
had  not  drunk  enough,  or  nearly  enough,  to  intoxicate  him. 
His  mind,  in  a  dull  way,  felt  the  same  as  usual;  but  his  bodj 
was  like  the  body  of  a  drunken  man. 


MAN    AND    WIFE.  555 

The  night  advanced  ;  the  clock  of  Putney  Church  struck  ten. 

Anne  appeared  again  from  the  drawing-room,  with  her  bed- 
room candle  in  her  hand. 

"  Put  out  the  lights,"  she  said  to  Hester,  at  the  kitchen  door ; 
"  I  am  going  up  stairs," 

She  entered  her  room.  The  insupportable  sense  of  weari- 
ness, after  the  sleepless  night  that  she  had  passed,  weighed 
more  heavily  on  her  than  ever.  She  locked  the  door,  but  for- 
bore, on  this  occasion,  to  fasten  the  bolts.  The  dread  of  dan- 
ger was  no  longer  present  to  her  mind ;  and  there  was  this 
positive  objection  to  using  the  bolts,  that  the  unfastening  of 
them  would  increase  the  difficulty  of  leaving  the  room  noise- 
lessly later  in  the  night.  She  loosened  her  dress,  and  lifted 
her  hair  from  her  temples — and  paced  to  and  fro  in  the  room 
wearily,  thinking.  Geoffrey's  habits  were  irregular;  Hester 
seldom  went  to  bed  early.  Two  hours  at  least — more  probably 
three — must  pass,  before  it  would  be  safe  to  communicate  with 
Sir  Patrick  by  means  of  the  signal  in  the  window.  Her 
strength  was  fast  failing  her.  If  she  persisted,  for  the  next 
three  hours,  in  denying  herself  the  repose  which  she  sorely 
needed,  the  chances  were  that  her  nerves  might  fail  her,  through 
sheer  exhaustion,  when  the  time  came  for  facing  the  risk  and 
making  the  effort  to  escape.  Sleep  was  falling  on  her  even 
now,  and  sleep  she  must  have.  She  had  no  fear  of  failing  to 
wake  at  the  needful  time.  Falling  asleep,  with  a  special  neces- 
sity for  rising  at  a  given  hour  present  to  her  mind,  Anne  (like 
most  other  sensitively  organized  people)  could  trust  herself  to 
wake  at  that  given  hour,  instinctively.  She  put  her  lighted 
candle  in  a  safe  position,  and  laid  down  on  the  bed.  In  less 
than  five  minutes  she  was  in  a  deep  sleep. 

The  church  clock  struck  the  quarter  to  eleven. 

Hester  Dethridge  showed  herself  at  the  back  garden  door. 
Geoffrey  crossed  the  lawn,  and  joined  her.  The  light  of  the 
lamp  in  the  passage  fell  on  his  face.  She  started  back  from 
the  sight  of  it. 

"  What's  wrong  ?"  he  asked. 

She  shook  her  head,  and  pointed  through  the  dining-room 
door  to  the  brandy-bottle  on  the  table. 

"  I'm  as  sober  as  you  are,  you  fool  !"  he  said.  "  Whatever 
else  it  is,  it's  not  .that." 

Hester  looked  at  him  again.  He  was  right.  However  un- 
steady his  gait  might  be,  his  speech  was  not  the  speech,  his 
eyes  were  not  the  eyes,  of  a  drunken  man. 

"  Is  she  in  her  room  for  the  night  ?" 

Hester  made  the  affirmative  sign. 

Geoffrey  ascended  the  stairs,  swaying  from  side  to  side.    Ha 


556  ilAN    AND    WIFE. 

stopped  at  the  top,  and  beckoned  to  Hester  to  join  him.  He 
went  on  into  his  room;  and,  signing  to  her  to  follow  him, 
closed  the  door. 

He  looked  at  the  partition  wall  —  without  approaching  it. 
Hester  waited,  behind  him. 

"  Is  she  asleep  ?"  he  asked. 

Hester  went  to  the  wall ;  listened  at  it ;  and  made  the  aflBrm- 
ative  reply. 

He  sat  down.  "  My  head's  queer,"  he  said.  "  Give  me  a 
drink  of  water."  He  drank  part  of  the  water,  and  poured  the 
rest  over  his  head.  Hester  turned  toward  the  door  to  leave 
him.  He  instantly  stopped  her.  "Z can't  unwind  the  strings. 
Z can't  lift  up  the  paper.     Do  it." 

She  sternly  made  the  sign  of  refusal :  she  resolutely  opened 
the  door  to  leave  him.  "  Do  you  want  your  Confession  back  ?" 
he  asked.  She  closed  the  door,  stolidly  submissive  in  an  in- 
stant ;  and  crossed  to  the  partition  wall. 

She  lifted  the  loose  strips  of  paper  on  either  side  of  the  wall 
— pointed  through  the  hollowed  place — and  drew  back  again 
to  the  other  end  of  the  room. 

He  rose,  and  walked  unsteadily  from  the  chair  to  the  foot  of 
his  bed.  Holding  by  the  wood-work  of  the  bed,  he  waited  a 
little.  While  he  waited,  he  became  conscious  of  a  change  in 
the  strange  sensations  that  possessed  him.  A  feeling  as  of  a 
breath  of  cold  air  passed  over  the  right  side  of  his  head.  He 
became  steady  again :  he  could  calculate  his  distances :  he 
could  put  his  hands  through  the  hollowed  place,  and  draw 
aside  the  light  curtains,  hanging  from  the  hook  in  the  ceil- 
ing over  the  head  of  her  bed.  He  could  look  at  his  sleeping 
wife. 

She  was  dimly  visible,  by  the  light  of  the  candle  placed  at 
the  other  end  of  her  room.  The  worn  and  weary  look  had  dis- 
appeared from  her  face.  All  that  had  been  purest  and  sweet- 
est in  it,  in  the  by-gone  time,  seemed  to  be  renewed  by  the 
deep  sleep  that  held  her  gently.  She  was  young  again  in  the 
dim  light:  she  was  beautiful  in  her  calm  repose.  Her  head 
lay  back  on  the  pillow.  Her  upturned  face  was  in  a  position 
which  placed  her  completely  at  the  mercy  of  the  man  under 
whose  eyes  she  was  sleeping — the  man  Avho  was  looking  at 
her,  with  the  merciless  resolution  in  him  to  take  her  life. 

After  waiting  a  while,  he  drew  back.  "  She's  more  like  a 
child  than  a  woman  to-night,"  he  muttered  to  himself  under 
his  breath.  He  glanced  across  the  room  at  Hester  Dethridge. 
The  lighted  candle  which  she  had  brought  up  stairs  with  her 
was  burning  near  the  place  where  she  stood.  "  Blow  it  out," 
he  whispered.  She  never  moved.  He  repeated  the  direction. 
There  she  stood,  deaf  to  him. 


MAN    AND    WIFE.  557 

What  was  she  doing  ?  She  was  looking  fixedly  into  one  of 
ihe  corners  of  the  room. 

He  turned  his  head  again  toward  the  hollowed  place  in  the 
vail.  He  looked  at  the  peaceful  face  on  the  pillow  once  more. 
le  deliberately  revived  his  own  vindictive  sense  of  the  debt 
hat  he  owed  her.  "But  for  you,"  he  whispered  to  himself, 
■  I  should  have  won  the  race  :  but  for  you,  I  should  have  been 
i'iends  with  my  father :  but  for  you,  I  might  marry  Mrs.  Glen- 
lirm."  He  turned  back  again  into  the  room  while  the  sense  of 
t  was  at  its  fiercest  in  him.  He  looked  round  and  round  hira. 
le  took  up  a  towel ;  considered  for  a  moment ;  and  threw  it 
iown  again. 

A  new  idea  struck  him.  In  two  steps  he  was  at  the  side  of 
lis  bed.  He  seized  on  one  of  the  pillows,  and  looked  suddenly 
It  Hester.  "  It's  not  a  drunken  brute  this  time,"  he  said  to 
ier.  "  It's  a  woman  who  will  fight  for  her  life.  The  pillow's 
jhe  safest  of  the  two."  She  never  answered  him,  and  never 
ooked  toward  him.  He  made  once  more  for  the  place  in  the 
svall,  and  stopped  midway  between  it  and  his  bed — stopped, 
ind  cast  a  backward  glance  over  his  shoulder. 
Hester  Dethridge  was  stirring  at  last. 

With  no  third  person  in  the  room,  she  was  looking,  and 
moving,  nevertheless,  as  if  she  was  following  a  third  person 
along  the  wall,  from  the  corner.  Her  lips  were  parted  in  hor- 
ror ;  her  eyes,  opening  wider  and  wider,  stared  rigid  and  glit- 
tering at  the  empty  wall.  Step  by  step  she  stole  nearer  and 
nearer  to  Geoffrey,  still  following  some  visionary  Thing,  which 
was  stealing  nearer  and  nearer  too.  He  asked  himself  what 
it  meant.  Was  the  terror  of  the  deed  that  he  was  about  to  do 
more  than  the  woman's  brain  could  bear  ?  Would  she  burst 
out  screaming,  and  wake  his  wife  ? 

He  hurried  to  the  place  in  the  wall — to  seize  the  chance, 
while  the  chance  was  his. 

He  steadied  his  strong  hold  on  the  pillow. 
He  stooped  to  pass  it  through  the  opening. 
He  poised  it  over  Anne's  sleeping  face. 

At  the  same  moment  he  felt  Hester  Dethridge's  hand  laid 
on  him  from  behind.  The  touch  ran  through  him,  from  head 
to  foot,  like  a  touch  of  ice.  He  drew  back  with  a  start,  and 
faced  her.  Her  eyes  were  staring  straight  over  his  shoulder 
ftt  something  behind  him — looking  as  they  had  looked  in  the 
garden  at  Windygates. 

Before  he  could  speak  he  felt  the  flash  of  her  eyes  in  his 
eyes.  For  the  third  time,  she  had  seen  the  Apparition  behind 
him.  The  homicidal  frenzy  possessed  her.  She  flew  at  his 
throat  like  a  wild  beast.  The  feeble  old  woman  attacked  the 
athlete ! 


558  MAN   AND   WIFK. 

He  dropped  the  pillow,  and  lifted  his  terrible  right  arm  t 
brush  her  from  him,  as  he  might  have  brushed  an  insect  fron 
him. 

Even  as  he  raised  the  arm  a  frightful  distortion  seized  on  hi 
face.  As  if  with  an  invisible  hand,  it  dragged  down  the  brov 
and  the  eyelid  on  the  right ;  it  dragged  down  the  mouth  oi 
the  same  side.  His  arm  fell  helpless ;  his  whole  body,  on  th( 
side  under  the  arm,  gave  way.  He  dropped  on  the  floor,  lik( 
a  man  shot  dead. 

Hester  Dethridge  pounced  on  his  prostrate  body — knelt  or 

his  broad  breast — and  fastened  her  ten  fingers  on  his  throat. 
*  *  *  *  *  *  * 

The  shock  of  the  fall  woke  Anne  on  the  instant.  She  start 
ed  up — looked  round — and  saw  a  gap  in  the  wall  at  the  head 
of  her  bed,  and  the  candle-light  glimmering  in  the  next  room 
Panic-stricken  ;  doubting,  for  the  moment,  if  she  were  in  her 
right  mind,  she  drew  back,  waiting — listening— looking.  Sh 
saw  nothing  but  the  glimmering  light  in  the  room  ;  she  heard 
nothing  but  a  hoarse  gasping,  as  of  some  person  laboring  for 
breath.  The  sound  ceased.  There  was  an  interval  of  silence. 
Then  the  head  of  Hester  Dethridge  rose  slowly  into  sight 
through  the  gap  in  the  wall — rose  with  the  glittering  light  of 
madness  in  the  eyes — and  looked  at  her. 

She  flew  to  the  open  window,  and  screamed  for  help. 

Sir  Patrick's  voice  answered  her,  from  the  road  in  front  of 
the  cottage. 

"  Wait  for  me,  for  God's  sake  !"  she  cried. 

She  fled  from  the  room,  and  rushed  down  the  stairs.  In  an- 
other moment  she  had  opened  the  door,  and  was  out  in  the 
front  garden. 

As  she  ran  to  the  gate,  she  heard  the  voice  of  a  strange  man 
on  the  other  side  of  it.  Sir  Patrick  called  to  her  encouraging- 
ly. "  The  policeman  is  with  us,"  he  said.  "  He  patrols  the 
garden  at  night — he  has  a  key."  As  he  spoke  the  gate  was 
opened  from  the  outside.  She  saw  Sir  Patrick,  Arnold,  and 
the  policeman.  She  staggered  toward  them  as  they  came  in — 
she  v/as  just  able  to  say, "  Up  stairs  !"  before  her  senses  tailed 
her.  Sir  Patrick  saved  her  from  falling.  He  placed  her  on 
the  bench  in  the  garden,  and  waited  by  her,  while  Arnold  and 
the  policeman  hurried  into  the  cottage. 

"  Where  first  ?"  asked  Arnold. 

"The  room  the  lady  called  from,"  said  the  policeman. 

They  mounted  the  stairs,  and  entered  Anne's  room.  Th© 
gap  in  the  wall  was  instantly  observed  by  both  of  them. 
They  looked  through  it. 

Geoffi-ey  Delamayn's  dead  body  lay  on  the  floor.  Hester 
Dethridge  was  kneeling  at  his  head,  praying. 


out 


MAN   AND   WIFK.  559 


lil 


II 


EPILOGUE. 
A  MORNING  CALL. 


The  newspapers  have  announced  the  return  of  Lord  and 
jady  Holchester  to  their  residence  in  London,  after  an  absence 
•n  the  continent  of  more  than  six  months. 

^  It  is  the  height  of  the  season.  All  day  long,  within  the  ca- 
'lonical  hours,  the  door  of  Holchester  House  is  perpetually  open- 
ng  to  receive  visitors.     The  vast  majority  leave  their  cards, 

»ind  go  away  again.  Certain  privileged  individuals  only  get 
Vit  of  their  carriages  and  enter  the  house. 

Among  these  last,  arriving  at  an  earlier  hour  than  is  custom- 
iry,  is  a  person  of  distinction  who  is  positively  bent  on  seeing 
(Bither  the  master  or  the  mistress  of  the  house,  and  who  will 
take  no  denial.  While  this  person  is  parleying  with  the  chief 
of  the  servants,  Lord  Holchester,  passing  from  one  room  to  an- 
other, happens  to  cross  the  inner  end  of  the  hall.  The  person 
instantly  darts  at  him  with  a  cry  of  "  Dear  Lord  Holchester  !" 
Julius  turns  and  sees — Lady  Lundie  ! 

I      He  is  fairly  caught,  and  he  gives  way  with  his  best  grace. 

[As  he  opens  the  door  of  the  nearest  room  for  her  ladyship,  he 

if  furtively  consults  his  watch  and  says,  in  his  inmost  soul,  "How 

I  am  I  to  get  rid  of  her  before  the  others  come  ?" 

Lady  Lundie  settles  down  on  a  sofa  in  a  whirlwind  of  silk  and 

I  lace,  and  becomes,  in  her  own  majestic  way,  "  perfectly  charm- 
ing."    She  makes  the  most  affectionate  inquiries  about  Lady 

'  Holchester,  about  the  Dowager  Lady  Holchester,  about  Julius 
himself  Where  have  they  been  ?  what  have  they  seen  ?  have 
time  and  change  helped  them  to  recover  the  shock  of  that  dread- 
ful event,  to  which  Lady  Lundie  dare  not  more  particularly  al- 
lude ?  Julius  answers  resignedly  and  a  little  absently.  He 
makes  polite  inquiries,  on  his  side,  as  to  her  ladyship's  plans 
and  proceedings — with  a  mind  uneasily  conscious  of  the  inex- 
orable lapse  of  time,  and  of  certain  probabilities  which  that 
lapse  may  bring  with  it.  Lady  Lundie  has  very  little  to  say 
about  herself.  She  is  only  in  town  for  a  few  weeks.  Her  life 
is  a  life  of  retirement.  "  My  modest  round  of  duties  at  Windy- 
gates,  Lord  Holchester ;  occasionally  relieved,  when  ray  mind 
is  overworked,  by  the  society  of  a  few  earnest  friends  whose 
views  harmonize  with  my  own — my  existence  passes  (not  quite 


560  MAN    AND    WIFE, 

uselessly,  I  hope)  in  that  M'ay,     I  have  no  news  ;  I  see  nothi    " 
— except,  indeed,  yesterday,  a  sight  of  the  saddest  kind."     ' 
pauses  there.     Julius  observes  that  he  is  expected  to  make  - 
quiries,  and  makes  them  accordingly. 

Lady  Luudie  hesitates ;  announces  that  her  news  refers 
that  painful  past  event  which  she  has  already  touched  on  ; 
knowledges  that  she  could  not  find  herself  in  London  with' 
feeling  an  act  of  duty  involved  in  making  inquiries  at  the  a, 
lum  in  which  Hester  Dethridge  is  confined  for  life  ;  announc 
that  she  has  not  only  made  the  inquiries,  but  has  seen  the  ul 
happy  woman  herself,  has  spoken  to  her,  has  found  her  uncon- 
scious of  her  dreadful  position,  incapable  of  the  smallest  exer- 
tion of  memory,  resigned  to  the  existence  that  she  leads,  and 
likely  (in  the  opinion  of  the  medical  superintendent)  to  live  for 
some  years  to  come.     Having  stated  these  facts,  her  ladyship 
is  about  to  make  a  few  of  those  "  remarks  appropriate  to  the 
occasion,"  in  which  she  excels,  when  the  door  opens  ;  and  Lady 
Holchester,  in  search  of  her  missing  husband,  enters  the  room. 

II. 

There  is  a  new  outburst  of  afiectionate  interest  on  Lady  Lun- 
die's  part — met  civilly,  but  not  cordially,  by  Lady  Holchester. 
Julius's  wife  seems,  like  Julius,  to  be  uneasily  conscious  of  thej 
lapse  of  time.     Like  Julius  again,  she  privately  wonders  howj 
long  Lady  Lundie  is  going  to  stay. 

Lady  Lundie  shows  no  signs  of  leaving  the  sofa.  She  has  ev- 
idently come  to  Holchester  House  to  say  something — and  shej 
has  not  said  it  yet.  Is  she  going  to  say  it  ?  Yes.  She  is  go- 
ing to  get,  by  a  roundabout  way,  to  the  object  in  view.  Sht 
has  another  inquiry  of  the  afiectionate  sort  to  make.  May  shel 
be  permitted  to  resume  the  subject  of  Lord  and  Lady  Holches- 
ter's  travels?  They  have  been  at  Rome.  Can  they  confirm 
the  shocking  intelligence  which  has  reached  her  of  the  "  apos- 
tasy "  of  Mrs.  Glenarm  ? 

Lady  Holchester  can  confirm  it,  by  personal  experience.  Mrs. 
Glenarm  has  renounced  the  world,  and  has  taken  refuge  in  the 
bosom  of  the  Holy  Catholic  Church,  Lady  Holchester  has  seen 
her  in  a  convent  at  Rome.  She  is  passing  through  the  period 
of  her  probation ;  and  she  is  resolved  to  take  the  veil.  Lady 
Lundie,  as  a  good  Protestant,  lifts  her  hands  in  horror — de- 
clares the  topic  to  be  too  painful  to  dwell  on — and  by  way  of 
varying  it,  goes  straight  to  the  point  at  last.  Has  Lady  Hol- 
chester, in  the  course  of  her  continental  experience,  happened 
to  meet  with,  or  to  hear  of— Mrs.  Arnold  Brinkworth  ? 

"  I  have  ceased,  as  you  know,  to  hold  any  communication 
with  my  relatives,"  Lady  Lundie  explains.  "  The  course  they 
took  at  the  time  of  our  family  trial — the  sympathy  they  felt 


MAN   AND   WIFE.  561 

with  a  Person  whom  I  can  not  even  now  trust  myself  to  name 
more  particularly — alienated  us  from  each  other.  I  may  be 
grieved,  dear  Lady  Holchester,  but  I  bear  no  malice.  And  I 
shall  always  feel  a  motherly  interest  in  hearing  of  Blanche's 
welfare.  I  have  been  told  that  she  and  her  husband  were 
traveling,  at  the  time  when  you  and  Lord  Holchester  were 
traveling.     Did  you  meet  with  them?" 

Julius  and  his  wife  looked  at  each  other.  Lord  Holchester 
is  dumb.     Lady  Holchester  replies  : 

"  We  saw  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Arnold  Brinkworth  at  Florence, 
and  afterward  at  Naples,  Lady  Lundie.  They  returned  to  En- 
gland a  Aveek  since,  in  anticipation  of  a  certain  happy  event, 
which  will  possibly  increase  the  members  of  your  family  circle. 
They  are  now  in  London.  Indeed,!  may  tell  you  that  we  ex- 
pect them  here  to  lunch  to-day." 

Having  made  this  plain  statement.  Lady  Holchester  looks  at 
Lady  Lundie.  (If  that  doesn't  hasten  her  departure,  nothing 
will !) 

Quite  useless !  Lady  Lundie  holds  her  ground.  Having 
heard  absolutely  nothing  of  her  relatives  for  the  last  six  months, 
she  is  burning  with  curiosity  to  hear  more.  There  is  a  name 
she  has  not  mentioned  yet.  She  places  a  certain  constraint 
upon  herself,  and  mentions  it  now. 

"And  Sir  Patrick?"  says  her  ladyship,  subsiding  into  a  gen- 
tle melancholy,  suggestive  of  past  injuries  condoned  by  Chris- 
tian forgiveness.  "  I  only  know  what  report  tells  me.  Did  you 
meet  with  Sir  Patrick  at  Florence  and  Naples  also  ?" 

Julius  and  his  wife  look  at  each  other  again.  The  clock  in 
the  hall  strikes.  Julius  shudders.  Lady  Holchester's  patience 
begins  to  give  way.  There  is  an  awkward  pause.  Somebody 
must  say  something.     As  before.  Lady  Holchester  replies : 

"Sir  Patrick  went  abroad.  Lady  Lundie,  with  his  niece  and 
her  husband  ;  and  Sir  Patrick  has  come  back  with  them." 

"  In  good  health  ?"  her  ladyship  inquires. 

"Younger  than  ever,"  Lady  Holchester  rejoins. 

Lady  Lundie  smiles  satirically.  Lady  Holchester  notices 
the  smile ;  decides  that  mercy  shown  to  this  woman  is  mercy 
misplaced;  and  announces  (to  her  husband's  horror)  that  she 
has  news  to  tell  of  Sir  Patrick,  which  will  probably  take  his 
sister-in-law  by  surprise. 

Lady  Lundie  waits  eagerly  to  hear  what  the  news  is. 

"  It  is  no  secret,"  Lady  Holchester  proceeds — "  though  it  is 
only  known,  as  yet,  to  a  few  intimate  friends.  Sir  Patrick 
has  made  an  important  change  in  his  life." 

Lady  Lundie's  charming  smile  suddenly  dies  out. 

"Sir  Patrick  is  not  only  a  very  clever  and  a  very  agreeable 
man,"  Lady  Holchester  resumes,  a  little  maliciously;  "he  is 

24* 


562  MAN    AND    "WIFE. 

also,  in  all  his  habits  and  ways  (as  you  well  know),  a  man 
yov;nger  than  his  years — who  still  possesses  many  of  the  qual- 
ities which  seldom  fail  to  attract  women." 

Lady  Lundie  starts  to  her  feet. 

"You  don't  mean  to  tell  me,  Lady  Holchester,  that  Sir  Pat- 
rick is  married  ?" 

"I  do." 

Her  ladyship  drops  back  on  the  sofa — helpless,  really  and 
iruly  helpless,  under  the  double  blow  that  has  fallen  on  her. 
fehe  is  not  only  struck  out  of  her  place  as  the  chief  woman  of 
the  family,  but  (still  on  the  right  side  of  forty)  she  is  socially 
superannuated,  as  The  Dowager  Lady  Lundie,  for  the  rest  of 
her  life ! 

"At  his  age !"  she  exclaims,  as  soon  as  she  can  speak. 

"Pardon  me  for  reminding  you,"  Lady  Holchester  answers, 
"  that  jDlenty  of  men  marry  at  Sir  Patrick's  age.  In  his  case, 
it  is  only  due  to  him  to  say  that  his  motive  raises  him  beyond 
the  reach  of  ridicule  or  reproach.  His  marriage  is  a  good 
action  in  the  highest  sense  of  the  word.  It  does  honor  to  him, 
as  well  as  to  the  lady  who  shares  his  position  and  his  name." 

"A  young  girl,  of  course  !"  is  Lady  Lundie's  next  remark, 

"  No.  A  woman  who  has  been  tried  by  no  common  suffering, 
and  who  has  borne  her  hard  lot  nobly.  A  woman  who  de- 
serves the  calmer  and  the  happier  life  on  which  she  is  entering 
now." 

"  May  I  ask  who  she  is  ?" 

Before  the  question  can  be  answered,  a  knock  at  the  house 
door  announces  the  arrival  of  visitors.  For  the  third  time, 
Julius  and  his  wife  look  at  each  other.  On  this  occasion, 
Julius  interferes. 

"  My  wife  has  already  told  you,  Lady  Lundie,  that  we  ex- 
pect Mr.  and  Mrs.  Brinkworth  to  lunch.  Sir  Patrick  and  the 
new  Lady  Lundie  accompany  them.  If  I  am  mistaken  in  sup- 
posing that  it  might  not  be  quite  agreeable  to  you  to  meet 
them,  I  can  only  ask  your  pardon.  If  I  am  right,  I  will  leave 
Lady  Holchester  to  receive  our  friends,  and  will  do  myself  the 
honor  of  taking  you  into  another  room." 

He  advances  to  the  door  of  an  inner  room.  He  offers  his  arm 
to  Lady  Lundie.  Her  ladyship  stands  immovable  ;  determined 
to  see  the  woman  who  has  supplanted  her.  In  a  moment  more, 
the  door  of  entrance  from  the  hall  is  thrown  open ;  and  the 
servant  announces,  "  Sir  Patrick  and  Lady  Lundie.  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Arnold  Brinkworth." 

Lady  Lundie  looks  at  the  woman  who  has  taken  her  place  at 
the  head  of  the  family;  and  sees — Anne  Silvester! 

THE    END. 


